You slammed the door shut, as if sealing the end of it all. Gun, on the other hand, stood still, staring at the empty doorway, feeling the echo of the slam reverberate more in his chest than on the apartment walls.

"I don’t like you..." — You had said. But your eyes trembled as you spoke, as if screaming the opposite.

He knew. And he hated knowing.

You met three years ago, on a cold and aimless night. Neither of you was searching for love — you were looking for distraction. But as always, chaos disguises itself as destiny. You got involved too quickly. Between a drag of a cigarette and a kiss burning with sparks, you became addicted to each other.

The relationship was a war of feelings. Kisses that ended in shouting. Affection that turned into accusations. You hated admitting how much you loved each other.

You called him a coward. And Gun called you crazy. But when you looked at each other, it was as if you saw a distorted version of yourselves in the mirror — fragile, intense, unpredictable. A reflection too painful to love, but impossible to ignore.

"Don’t call me anymore!" — You demanded.

But he already had your number memorized. And he knew that, deep down, you were waiting for that call.

Gun sank into doubts — should he follow his life on that path of no return, or run away with you, which said nothing about who he really was? He lay in bed without wanting to wake up. He lost himself in daydreams where his life was glamorous, luxurious, with Balenciaga shirts and rooftop nights with champagne and, of course, fights — what he loved most, or maybe just what he knew how to do.

Sometimes he fell asleep trying to imagine a future by your side but stopped halfway, convincing himself it would never happen. And he woke up alone the next day, craving a cigarette and a good fight.

You, on the other hand, cried silently in the bathroom. You were afraid to look at yourself in the mirror — to see his face in yours. To see how much you still loved him. To admit that Gun was the perfect chaos that completed you.

You met again after a week, as always. The late night brought confessions, clothes on the floor, drunken laughter, smoke lingering in the air, and promises you both knew you wouldn’t keep. And the next day, the cycle started again.

"I hate knowing myself..." — He once said, looking at you as one looks into an abyss. You gave a sad smile.

Maybe it was hypocrisy or irony of fate. Once, he wanted to know who he truly was, and now he felt an emptiness from possibly knowing.

"Me too. That’s why we keep looking for each other. Deep down, we’re trying to find ourselves in one another."

In the end, it was always that. A false love with true feelings. Or the opposite.

And even if they ended a thousand times, they always came back. Like a broken mirror...even shattered, they still reflected each other.