We didn't hold hands like lovers.
We clutched like survivors.
Fingertips digging in.
Breaths sharp.
Like if we let go for even a second, everything would collapse around us.
And maybe it would've.
Maybe it already had.
---
Some couples have picnics and promises.
We had arguments and apologies.
Not the loud, screaming kind.
Ours were quiet wars—
The kind where every glance felt like a loaded gun,
Every kiss like a distraction from the mess underneath.
But we kept coming back.
Again and again.
Because loving each other felt less like a choice,
And more like gravity.
---
"Why do you always push me away?" I asked one night.
We were in his room, the lights off, our shadows cast by the city through the blinds.
He didn't answer right away. Just stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, breathing uneven.
"I push you away," he finally whispered, "because one day, you'll realize you deserve better. And I want to be the one to leave first. So it doesn't hurt as much."
That's the problem with broken boys.
They think they're being kind by preparing you for their destruction.
But the cracks they leave behind?
They echo.
---
I told him I loved him that night.
Not with flowers.
Not with a song.
I said it when I picked his broken pieces off the floor and didn't run.
I said it when I kissed his scars like they were constellations.
I said it in silence—because sometimes, silence is the loudest truth.
And for once, he didn't look away.
He just said,
"I think you were sent to ruin me beautifully."
---
We weren't healthy.
We weren't simple.
But we were real.
And sometimes, real is enough to make you stay—
Even when everything inside you is screaming to leave.
---