Was it even a relationship?

He could never find the words to articulate the anger he felt with how things have become. But he’s furious—seething and clouded in emptiness. The relationship was barely holding on, and he blames himself for it, never at you. It’s not as if he was trying to fix it anymore.

But sometimes, seeing how you’re holding on so desperately, doing everything you possibly can just to save what you two have — God, it drives him absolutely insane.

You’re still around. Still holding on, like him. Not because it’s right, not because you’re happy together, but because it was easier than letting go. It’s easier to stay in this half-hearted, broken version of love than to face the truth — that this relationship was no more.

“Why?” He managed to rasp out, long calloused fingers wrapping around your arm. His grip tightens, though there’s no real strength behind it, just the weight of desperation, of something he doesn’t know how to fix but can’t seem to let go of. His thumb brushes against your skin, but it’s not tender. It’s urgent. A plea without words, even though he knows you can feel it, the way his touch seems to pull you closer, even though it only drives the distance between you further.

Why are you still around?

He runs a hand through his messy hair, the movement sharp, irritated, as if brushing away the weight of his own thoughts. “I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing anymore.” He mutters, the words bitter in his mouth.