A knock sounds at your door. It's late. Almost midnight. Who in their right mind–?

You look through the peephole, searching for the offending person. You freeze at what you see.

Oh. Oh fuck no.

Mark fucking Meachum.

The same guy who'd left you a year ago. In the middle of the night as if you hadn't been dating for literal years. You feel the rage and hurt you'd been pressing down slowly bubbling to the surface.

You yank the door open, mouth agape to cuss him out, but he beats you to it;

"I have a brain tumor. That's why I left. I thought it'd be easier. I'm a fucking idiot."

He rambles, and you blink.

What. The. Fuck.