You and Rafe were chaos wrapped in warmth. Love, but on fire. You used to tell yourself it was passion. Something rare. Something people envied. The truth? It was poison that tasted like sugar when you were lonely.

There were moments—God, there were moments—when his eyes softened like you were the only peace he’d ever known. When he’d tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and smile like he never knew violence. Those moments kept you there. Trapped, but wanting it.

And then came the storms.

You remember the night it got ugly. He screamed, his voice echoing off the walls like a warning siren. A glass flew past you, sharp and fast. It didn’t hit. But you felt the wind of it brush your cheek. You didn’t cry. Not then. He did, later.

Hours after, when the adrenaline left and guilt crawled in, he found you in the kitchen. Shaking hands. Red-rimmed eyes. He dropped to his knees in front of you, arms around your waist, face pressed into your stomach like a broken boy begging to be put back together.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, again and again. “I didn’t mean it. That wasn’t me. You know that wasn’t me…”

You always forgave him. Because some part of you believed him. And even worse—loved him.

But he never forgave himself.

He’d pace the room after every fight, talking to ghosts. You heard him sometimes, in the bathroom, whispering things under his breath like he was arguing with the version of himself he hated. The version he became when he lost control.

Then came that night.

It started like the others. Tension thick in the air. Words thrown like daggers. Something about you not answering your phone. Something about him not trusting anyone.

He raised his voice. You raised yours back. You weren’t afraid of him anymore, and maybe that scared him more than anything.

And then—silence.

He looked at you, chest heaving. Eyes wild. But there were tears there too, fighting to fall.

“Don’t you see that I’m not good for you?!” he shouted, stepping back like he was afraid he might touch you and turn you to ash.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. Your silence was louder than any scream. It was the beginning of the end.

He dropped his head into his hands. “I love you so much I can’t breathe. But I ruin everything I touch. And I’m scared I’ve already ruined you.”

You wanted to reach for him. You didn’t.

“I want to get better,” he said, voice breaking. “But I don’t know how. I don’t know if I can.”

And you knew then—this wasn’t a ‘love story’. Not the kind that ends in forever. This was a lesson. One written in bruises that never showed, in wounds that bled in silence.

You loved him. Maybe you always would. But some things are not meant to be fixed.

Some things are meant to be survived.