We'd spent another night at my apartment, eating take-out as we watched whatever he'd picked out. I wasn't paying much attention—I never did—and once he'd finished eating, he'd slid his arm around my shoulder, just like he had for the past few nights, completely without fail.

I didn't get it. I didn't understand why we spent all of our time together at my apartment. I didn't understand why, whenever we talked, our conversations were as hollow as the bag our McDonald's came in, and as purposeless as the clip shows he'd grown fond of watching.

He could tell I was slipping away—his finger tapped against my shoulders whenever I'd gone too long without speaking, and when I didn't respond, I'd catch him gazing at me from the corner of my eye, his mouth hanging open, but nothing falling out.

Is this what we'd fallen into? The nasty habit of feeling as alone together as we were apart?

"Penny for your thoughts?" he whispered, snapping me out of my reverie. Somewhere deep in my soul, I wished he'd done it sooner.

"Why don't we ever leave here?" I asked, glancing up at him.

In the past, that would've been my first mistake; I knew better, now.

The frightening blue in his eyes grew fearful, and he blinked, shifting his gaze back to the television, as if the question was never asked, and would never be answered.

"You hate going outside," he muttered, shrugging. "You hate my apartment, too, and I don't want to start another fight."

I'd rather fight than feel like my words aren't going through.

I blinked, my eyes gliding back towards the remnants of his food, resting beside mine, silently expecting me to whisk them off of the table and into the garbage can.

Lately, I'd grown tired of taking out the trash.

"Why'd you even open the door?" he asked, his tone as casual as the flip-flops that he'd donned for the night.

"Don't you get it?" I whispered, staring up at him. Those azure eyes fled back to mine, looking down on me expectantly. "It's you—it's always been you. You could burn me alive, and I'd still want my ashes to be in your possession. For some reason, I'm hung up on you, and—"

I'd like to be taken down.

"It's okay," he whispered, pushing me into him and planting a kiss on my forehead. "I'm hung up on you, too."

And, for the first time, even when his words had fully registered, and a soft smile had fled onto my face, my heart never stopped beating.

XXX

dedicated to ian for being such a dear (and creating "forget friday" and "twenty-one"; do yourself a favour, kids).