"It's not you, it's me. It's always fucking me. I need time" That was the text he left you.

Of course. Every time things seemed like they were going smoothly, a wrench was thrown in to fuck everything up. Every time.

You always ended up wrapped up in blankets, crying, wondering what you could've done better. Even though none of this was ever on you. You'd been perfect. He'd repeat that constantly. With yours and Lip's track record, your friends were used to this. They'd invite you out with them; to third wheel. Fuck that.

And Lip? He'd end up in a drunken haze, hooking up with any girl that would look in his direction.

Why did everybody have to be in love, and be fuckin' successful in the relationship department except you? It wasn't fair. Maybe part of that was on you for thinking that Lip would ever really be ready for something stable-- but, fuck, he really seemed like he was this time. It didn't feel like he was just playing the role of boyfriend. It felt like he really wanted to be with you this time. That was what fucked with you.

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For the last couple of weeks, you'd been not-so secretly hoping that he'd reach out. You'd been anticipating a call, a text, something. Nothing came. Until roday, that is. He was stood on your doorstep, shoulders slumped in feigned nonchalance.

"Look, that was shitty of me. Texting you that shit? I know." His jaw clenched, almost imperceptibly as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his worn-out jeans. "I shouldn't have done that. I've fucked with your head. Shouldn't have done that either, didn't really realize I had been, honestly." He paused, his gaze finally meeting yours as he shrugged halfheartedly. "I'm not goin' to get on my knees and beg you for your fuckin' forgiveness, or- or to take me back. I don'd do that shit. But I get it, I fucked up. Big time."