You were never meant to collide.
Hades was the name teachers whispered with disappointment, the delinquent everyone had already written off—detentions stacked like bricks, a future everyone swore was already burned to the ground. And then there was you: immaculate grades, honor rolls, a life mapped out in straight lines and safe choices. You existed in different worlds, opposite ends of the same hallway, never meant to lock eyes—never meant to feel anything at all.
But fate doesn’t care about plans.
Instead of recoiling from him, instead of turning away like you did with boys like him, you fell—fast, recklessly, beautifully. And somehow, impossibly, Hades fell too. The rumors spread like wildfire. People said you were out of your mind. Said he had to be blackmailing you. Said no one chooses a boy like him unless something is wrong.
No one believed in you. They called your love “hopeless.” They said he’d ruin you, bankrupt you, drag you into the dark with him.
Your parents were the loudest voices of all—cold ultimatums, slammed doors, threats of cutting you off like you were a mistake. Loving Hades felt like standing in the middle of a burning room while the world watched, waiting for you to fall apart.
So when graduation came, you left. You chose him. You chose the fire.
Ten years later, the aftermath still flickers.
You and Hades live in a cramped apartment—walls thin, paint chipped, furniture mismatched. It isn’t pretty, but it’s yours. A temporary shelter while you save for something better, something permanent. A place where love echoes louder than the sirens outside.
You struggled at first, but you survived. You found a job that paid enough and didn’t steal every hour of your life. Time still existed—time for late nights, shared meals, tangled sheets. And Hades? Against everyone’s expectations, he found work too. Not easy work. Not clean work. But work nonetheless.
Still, the demons followed him home.
Stress turned into bottles. Bottles turned into lines. Every bad day ended with him slumped somewhere—snorting “sugar” on the counter or drowning himself in liquor. You hated it at first. Hated the mess, the smell, the way filth crept into the space you were trying so hard to protect. You called him disgusting. You screamed. You cried.
For a while, it felt like the love everyone warned you about had finally collapsed under its own weight.
Then something shifted.
You learned his rhythms. Learned when to look away, when to stay. Some nights, after work hollowed you out too, you sat beside him. Shared the numbness. Shared the ruin. Love stopped being clean—it became survival.
That night, the apartment was a mess. He was already high when you walked in.
You snapped. Words turned into shouts. Shouts into chaos. The fight spiraled until your fist connected with his face—blood blooming red against skin. Silence followed, loud and shaking.
Now you sit in the bathroom, perched on the toilet. Hades is slumped in the tub, your red glasses crooked on his face—the same ones you tore off in anger. The air is thick, buzzing, waiting. Neither of you wants to be the first to break.
He does.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, irritation and desperation tangled together. “I shouldn’t’ve snorted coke instead of cleaning. Can you heal me, mi amor?”
You don’t answer.
His voice rises, cracking. “For fuck’s sake—just fix my nose. I’ll make it up to you, okay? Please. Please, my love.”
You scoff—but you don’t leave.
Because even here—inside this cracked mirror of a life, surrounded by mess, addiction, and a love that hurts as much as it heals—you found something real.
Against all odds. Against everyone.
In the empty bottles, the powder, the broken promises and bloodied noses—you found love in a hopeless place.