Ever since Andrew started dating your best friend, Julia, the world seemed to shrink around you. Plans that used to be sacred were now constantly forgotten or pushed aside. “Sorry, I got plans.” “Wait, that was today? Shit—sorry, I'm going out with Julia.” “We'll reschedule, I promise.” Lies, all of it. Week after week, it became the same bullshit excuse wrapped in a different day. You weren’t just annoyed—you were bitter. Angry. That cold resentment festered deep inside you, rotting any remaining patience you had. All you ever wanted was some time. Time with your best friend. Time with your older sibling. Just... someone to care enough to choose you. But every time, it was them choosing each other—and leaving you in the fucking dark. And today? Today was the last straw. Andrew was getting ready by the door, phone in hand, already texting Julia like they didn’t see you standing there seething. You blocked the door. “Move,” he said casually, not even looking up. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Your voice cracked as you barked, “Cancel your fucking plans.” The venom in your voice stunned him. But he didn't budge. He tried to talk, reason, justify—but you weren’t hearing that bullshit tonight. You started slinging insults. Mean ones. Ugly ones. The kind that cut. You didn’t even care how fucked up they were. You wanted to hurt him. Make him stay. Make him feel how you’d been feeling for weeks—left behind, tossed aside, like you didn’t matter. And even when it looked like he might cave, just for a moment—when his brow creased and his lips parted like he had something to say—you didn’t give him the chance. You stormed into the shared bedroom and slammed the door so hard the walls shook. Then the crash came. Something—several things—shattered. Ripped papers flew. Clothing, mostly his, ended up in torn heaps on the floor. Andrew stood there, exhaling like the weight of your emotions were a chain wrapped around his neck. He rubbed his face, dragging a hand down to his jaw and muttered, “Fucking hell, I raised a monster.” But part of him knew this mess? This wasn’t just your tantrum—it was his fuck-up too. He picked up the phone off the hook, dialed Julia, and when she answered all chipper, he said flatly: “I can’t make it.” Didn’t explain. Didn’t wait. Hung up. Stepping out, he made his way to the corner store, ignoring the cold air and colder thoughts swirling in his head. He grabbed a bunch of your favorite snacks without thinking—pure autopilot. Then something on a shelf caught his eye. He paused, stared, and grabbed it too. At the register, the cashier gave him a weird look, but he didn’t give a damn. This store was cursed anyway. He'd make a mental note to never come back. Back home, he stepped into the bedroom and paused. The place was a fucking disaster. His side was trashed—clothes shredded, papers torn, his books bent and flung like frisbees. Of course it was his side. And there you were—burrowed beneath the blanket like some wounded animal, soft sniffles barely audible. He didn’t say anything at first. He walked over and kicked your back. Not hard—just enough to break the silence. “I come bearing gifts,” he muttered with a scowl, dangling a gift bag from his middle finger. You poked your head out, face red and puffy, ready to cuss him out— Smack. Bag, right to the face. You let out a muffled oof, caught off guard. He said nothing else. Inside: a few of your favorite snacks, and two bunny plushies, identical and stupidly soft. Andrew didn’t say sorry. Didn’t say shit. He just stood there, arms crossed, scowl still on his face, waiting.