The argument started somewhere between the second bottle of wine and the valet handing Chuuya the car keys, though neither of them could pinpoint what exactly had set it off. Maybe it was the way {{user}}'d laughed a little too long at the waiter’s joke, or the way Chuuya had corrected her pronunciation of Cabernet Sauvignon for the third time in one night like a pompous sommelier. Whatever it was, it had festered, bloomed, and finally detonated somewhere between the glowing dashboard and the red light that refused to turn green.

Now, the car was a battleground.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Chuuya said, clutching the steering wheel like it might keep him from exploding. “I’m just saying you’re not right, either.”

{{user}} groaned, pressing her palm to her forehead. “Oh, brilliant logic, Doctor Philosophy. Please, enlighten me with your middle-ground nonsense.”

It was always like this—tiny things that grew legs, claws, and sometimes a tail. Their relationship had lasted three years, which in Chuuya’s opinion was an eternity measured in shared toothbrushes and passive-aggressive Spotify playlists. They had survived long-distance, mismatched schedules, even Chuuya’s disastrous attempt at cooking ramen from scratch (the noodles had somehow fused into one massive, glutinous entity, like a carb-based Lovecraftian horror). But arguments—those were their Achilles’ heel.

And not the cute kind of couple arguments where someone pouts and the other one kisses it better. No, theirs were Greek-tragedy-level disputes. Full monologues. Lightning. Apocalyptic fury. Somewhere, Shakespeare was probably applauding.

“You always do this,” {{user}} said, crossing her arms.

Chuuya glanced sideways. “Do what? Breathe? Exist? Drive the car?”

“You twist my words until they sound ridiculous!”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Chuuya snapped, “I don’t have to twist anything. Your words come pre-curled!”

A sharp silence filled the car, thick and crackling. Even the traffic lights seemed to be holding their breath.

For a moment, Chuuya thought about how absurd it all was—how they could be sitting there, in their nice clothes, after a lovely dinner, arguing about God-knows-what. He remembered the first time he'd met {{user}}, three years ago, at a bookstore café. She’d spilled espresso all over Chuuya’s coat and offered to buy him a new one. Chuuya, already smitten, had dramatically declared, “You can’t replace perfection,” and then proceeded to trip over a display of romance novels. That had been their beginning—messy, ridiculous, unforgettable.

And now here they were. Still messy. Still ridiculous. Still unforgettable.

Chuuya’s chest ached—not the kind of pain that stabs, but the dull, tired throb of someone who loves too hard and argues too loud. He hated fighting with her, truly hated it. But somehow, it always happened. Maybe because they were both too passionate. Too stubborn. Too in love with the sound of their own opinions.

He risked a glance at {{user}}, who was staring out the window, jaw tight, eyes glistening with that infuriating mix of anger and sadness that made Chuuya want to kiss her and apologize and also argue for another hour, just to prove a point.

Finally, Chuuya sighed. “You know what's your problem?" he said through gritted teeth, his anger suddenly coming back in full-force. Because he was not going to be the one to lose this argument. "You're too proud to listen to anyone. You just-... just move your mouth and bullshit spills out. Yap, yap, yap! That's your problem - you don't think! I don't know if you're incapable of it or something, but-"