Our words are erupting across the apartment, catapulted through the windows by our ever—rising voices, set alight by the rage crackling behind our eyes. My browns burn white, your blues burn black.

                 I can't recall why this started. Why I'm standing behind the couch, both hands gripping the headrest—only to stop the shaking, the kind that turns everything a little blurry, a little broken—eyes fixed on you as you pace across the room, arms waving dramatically, lips never meeting, cutting the stream of bullshit that flows from you. Lie, after lie, after lie.

         Maybe that's why I find myself inhaling deeply, my grip only tightening on the soft fabric. I wonder if I could break it, watch it crumble in my hands, fling it across the room. I wonder if it would hurt; this chunk of chair, of couch, of something we bought together, of us. Maybe it'd knock some sense into you.

       "You can't just quit without telling me," I roar, his voice finally fading out of its horrendous monotone, his eyes focusing on me as his body begins to still. He blinks. Then, he frowns.

                 "I can do whatever I want," he grumbles. He steps towards me, and I feel every muscle in my body tense, as if this is a moment for an inhale, but my lungs can't seem to fit enough air into them.

           "Not when we're a team," I hiss. "How the hell are we going to pay for this apartment?"

      "I'll find some—"

        "Common sense? That would be great."

"J—"

                  "It's almost as if you keep forgetting that you're not the only one here." The words tumble out of me, and suddenly I'm hunched over the couch, staring into the suede pillows my mother handed down, staring at the lines smeared across the fabric, the time stitched into every corner. I feel his hands reach me, lift my head up. His breath washes over me—fruity, from the gum he chews when he's nervous (I should have known), and his lips press against mine, gently, pleadingly.

              In the midst of heaven, in the presence of paradise, I open my eyes and find myself pushing him away.

                  His eyes are wide, mouth still parted open, white teeth glinting behind wet lips.

           "You're not the only one in this relationship, okay?" I snap, the fury turning itself over within me. "And you do not get to kiss me and say you'll make it better when that's what you've been saying that since the day I met you."

                     The rooms fall silent. I can hear his breath—in,          out,          in,            out,           in,              out.

            "That is not fair." He huffs. "You don't get to hold the past over me, okay?"

                 "I do, if you're still the child you used to be," I huff, too far-gone, in too deep to pull myself back up now. I watch as he clenches his fist at his side, and suddenly wonder if my blood would taste different in my mouth, knowing that he put it there with a swift knuckle to my cheek.

            He remains where he is. And so the century-long stalemate continues; us, standing on opposite sides of every room, the middle-ground strewn with things we wish we could say if fear hadn't corrupted our hearts, and bone-breaking love hadn't blinded us.

                "I'm tired of having this fight with you." He scoffs, fists still clenched, lips pulled tightly across the shadowed caverns of his face, darkness cascading across the ocean of his eyes. He turns, storming towards the door, undoubtedly slipping into that age-old tendency; finding love where it did not live, fleeing from the only real affection he'd ever known.

                   "Are you walking away?" I scream. He stops. Time ticks on. The world still spins, and my mind joins it. "Are you a boy? Are you that boy?"

                      "Don't." A crack bleeds into his voice. The rage within me wants it to widen until I see the truth, glazed in our life force, pumping across his face. Some part of me still wants to break him—ruin the boy who brushed his fingertips across my soul before ripping it out of my body. But, the calmer parts of me are still sane, still untouched by what throbs in and around me-he's changed; he isn't afraid; he loves you.

               But, hope is dethroned, and vexation reigns victorious.

             "Are you the scared little boy I left behind," I rage on, rampaging through the past as if we had not left it behind, pulling apart the sheets and smashing open the coffins that we'd buried it in, "or are you the man I came back for?"

             A moment unfolds. Our breaths are in sync; mine, huffy, heavy, laden with words I'd been far too timid, too silent, to say—his, much too close to a growl, coaxing the feral side of him that I'd seen face-first, my eyes blinded by rows and rows of pointed, glinting, bloodied teeth.

         Then, an action; a movement, a burst of life—a burst of something—defined by a single second.

               He opens the door to our apartment and struts out, the slab of wood meeting its frame with a mighty bang. As his footsteps fade into the background noise of the breathing city, I realize that I have my answer.

☀

            I'm wrapped in tears and sheets when I hear him come home.

             His footsteps slap lazily against the floors, echoing through the quiet apartment, silencing the noise of the world that beats on the other side of our windows—our doors, our walls, our hearts.

                    He's humming. The sound courses through the walls as his keys jingle against the kitchen countertop—where he always leaves them, the part of our home that makes the most sense to those cuts of steel—and it begins tingling through me, soothing my sedated heart, letting the anger bleed from my fingertips. I bite back a smile.

              His steps grow louder, and I hear fumbling as the door shakes open. I do not move. My eyes remain shut as the humming continues, the low rumble of his voice rising into the room, slipping into bed with me, wrapping its arms around my waist, resting its nose against my neck.

               "I'm sorry," he sighs into me. I feel my body tense, for a moment—do I move, or do I remain sleepily still? Do I lie, or do I whisper the truth into the cracks of his lips?

                      An eternity passes, and his breath slows against my back, his grip loosens around me. The world leaves my lips, as he slips into sleep.

        "I know," I say, softly. I turn, slowly, quietly, transfixed by how peacefully his skin rests against his bones, how untouched he is by reality as his body breathes for him. A sad smile twists onto my face as my fingertips trace the lines on his. "I'm sorry, too."

                We wake like that—his hands numb beneath my body, mine held gently against his face—and he asks if we're okay.

            I nod; this boy—this man—is always trying to make it better, more than happy to hold my hand. We're just blinded, sometimes. Him, by fear and that intrinsic need to run run run, and me, by the ideal of love that I hold so dear, the one we both fall far from.

                    When he doesn't say anything—just looks at me, with eyes that have broken me open more times than I can recall-I nod again, pressing my lips against his.

             "I love you," he whispers, the words slipping from his tongue to mine, crashing into our breaths, pressing into the hands that hold on for dear life.

                       I love him, and he loves me. We're going to be okay.

☀

This is a manufactured slice of the future I wanted. You best believe there are going to be more of these, but you also need to know that this is not what I want anymore. He is not what I want anymore.

Also, this illuminati mess reached 1k reads today? Thank you so, so much. I'm in awe, and crying a little bit too.

Thank you for being here. I love you.

—jay.