Your voice is still echoing down the hall when I follow you in. Sharp, shaking, filled with anger as you tell me that you’re leaving, that you can’t do this anymore.

You always say that. You never mean it, though.

I used to panic when you’d say that. Too many times I’ve dropped to my knees, literally begging for you not to leave me. That I’d do anything and everything just for you to stay with me.

Now? Now I know this routine all too well. We’ll have a few weeks with no problems, being the perfect lovey dovey couple, then something will inevitable happen that causes an argument and one of us walks out. But by the next morning, we’re always already calling to apologize and going on about how we’ll do better and change.

It’s bullshit. But neither of us really care.

All of our friends know by now how utterly toxic we are together. You and I know it too, except every time we try to separate for good, it never sticks.

We try to move on, find other people, but no one understands us like each other.

Which is why we always come back like it's the end of the world if we don't.

“Baby,” I mutter, gently taking ahold of your wrist to pull you back towards me, away from the bag that you’re packing. “We both know you’ll be back before breakfast tomorrow.”

I lean down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then dropping one on your cheek and another on your shoulder. “Just save ourselves the time and stay, hm?”