bread & butter

It always felt the same.

like the sweetness of a night you never wanted to end, only to wake up with the ache of a hangover you couldn’t escape.

to be consumed by him was to lose myself entirely.

my mind, my body slipping into surrender. worries vanished, but not because they disappeared; I only postponed them, tucked them away like debts I’d be forced to repay in the daylight.

and it was always like that. every time.

“I really like you, but I can’t.” he stood over me, clothes scattered like evidence of something we swore never to name. his hands moved mechanically, picking fabric from the floor, shaking out his shirt.

“I know what you’re going to say,” I murmured, watching him wrestle the sleeves onto his arms, one after another, like armor.

he pulled the shirt over his chest before stepping closer, his shadow falling across my side of the bed.

“no,” he said softly, almost like a warning. “you don’t know what I’m gonna say.”

but I did. I always did.

his weight dipped the mattress as he sat beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him, though he didn’t touch me. not yet. his fingers hovered, grazing the sheets instead of my skin, as if even the fabric might betray him.

“I don’t think you do,” he said again, softer now, eyes fixed somewhere beyond me. the way his voice broke on the last word made it feel less like a statement and more like a plea.

I wanted to tell him I knew.

because I did. I’d known from the very first night. he was already halfway out the door, even when he leaned in close, even when he kissed me like I was the only thing anchoring him. every smile, every touch,

it was all threaded with an exit.

—

I lay flat on my back, the ceiling above me nothing more than a blur as the blue light of my phone burned into my eyes. we were fighting again. not about anything real, not about anything that would matter tomorrow—but somehow, the nothingness gave it weight. at least if we fought, there was something tying us together.

a thread, fraying at the edges, but a thread all the same.

my thumb hovered, hesitating over words I didn’t really want to send. maybe we should just stop. I stared at it for what felt like a lifetime before pressing send, my chest already caving at the thought of his reply.

It came faster than I expected. ok.

two letters. two letters that hollowed me out, that left me staring into the ceiling’s silence as though it might echo back something softer. I shoved the phone beneath my pillow, as if hiding it could erase the truth he’d just handed me. maybe this is for the better, I thought, though the words lodged sharp and unconvincing in my chest.

but then—the vibration. a second chance trembling against the mattress. I pulled the phone out with hands that weren’t steady, my heart thundering in my throat.

are we really done?

my breath caught, sharp and shallow. my heart lurched, then bloomed, fragile and reckless, like a dying rose touched by rain. warmth spread through me in aching waves as I typed back, I miss you.

and when his reply came—I miss you too—the dam broke. the ache, the fear, the words we’d thrown like stones—all of it dissolved.

we found each other again, not in apologies, not in explanations, but in the silence that followed. his body pressed against mine, our breaths tangled, our limbs searching for something to hold onto.

wrapped in the same sheets, we clung as though closeness itself might keep us alive. for that night, at least, we let the world fall away.