You and Amelia were never built to last.

It was intense from the beginning—a rush of adrenaline and secrets, midnight drives with music too loud, promises made in the dark. She brought out a version of you that felt thrilling, reckless. But that kind of passion doesn’t settle; it scorches. And now, you’re trapped in a pattern you can’t break—always leaving, always returning.

The door shuts softly behind her. You don’t look back. Instead, you stare out the window, where city lights blur behind the rain, your reflection faded, barely there.

She exhales. “This has to be the last time.”

You smile, almost amused. “Didn’t you say that before?”

She inches forward, hands tucked deep in her coat, like she’s holding herself together. “We’re no good for each other.”

“Then why are you here?” you ask, your tone gentle, knowing.

She doesn’t reply. Just stares at you with that look—the one that always says more than words ever could.

You lean your head back, eyes closed. “We keep saying it’s done, but…”

“But I always come back,” she murmurs.

Silence stretches between you. Her fingers barely graze your wrist—tentative, uncertain.

“You don’t even love me,” you say quietly.

She winces. “Don’t say that.”

“What? That this isn’t real?”

“It is,” she insists, voice rough, strained. “It means something.”

Your chest tightens. But the exhaustion is deeper now—the kind that lingers long after the fight is over. You’re worn out by the nights spent alone, by the ache that clings even after she leaves.

“Amelia…”

She cuts you off. “Please don’t.”

A beat. Then, almost too soft to hear—

“One more time?”

You don’t reply. But when she kisses you, you don’t pull away.

And come morning, the ache will return. Just like it always does.