We don’t fight loudly at first.
That’s what scares me the most.
It starts in fragments—unfinished sentences, sighs that linger too long, looks that slide away instead of meeting mine. Conversations that feel like negotiations instead of closeness. I say something hopeful, he responds with something dismissive, and suddenly we’re standing on opposite sides of an invisible line neither of us remembers drawing.
I’m tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind that settles into your bones when every interaction feels like work.
“Chase, you promised you’d come over tonight,” I say, standing in the doorway of my room, arms crossed tightly over my chest. “You said you’d help me go over the competition material.”
He doesn’t look at me. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, scrolling on his phone.
“I forgot,” he mutters.
“You didn’t forget,” I snap. “You just didn’t care.”
That gets his attention.
He looks up sharply. “That’s not fair.”
“Then explain it,” I say. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels like I’m begging you to show up.”
“I’m dealing with shit,” he says, his voice low and defensive. “Not everything is about you.”
I flinch, even though I know I shouldn’t.
“I know that,” I say. “But something has to be about us.”
He laughs bitterly. “You and your ‘growth’ talk again.”
“That’s not a joke,” I say, heat rushing to my face. “I’m trying to build a future.”
“And I’m trying to survive,” he shoots back.
The words hit harder than he probably intends.
I take a breath, forcing myself to soften. “I’m not asking you to be perfect. I’m asking you to try.”
He stands abruptly, pacing the small room. “You don’t get it.”
“Then help me understand,” I plead.
He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because you’re already looking past me,” he says. “You’re already gone.”
“That’s not true,” I say automatically.
But the hesitation that follows gives me away. He sees it. Of course he does.
“There,” he says bitterly. “That pause. That’s everything.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. The truth sits heavy on my tongue.
“I don’t want to leave you behind,” I say instead. “I want you to come with me.”
“To where?” he snaps. “Your perfect academic world where everyone claps and tells you how special you are?”
“That’s not fair,” I say, my voice shaking now. “You make it sound like I’m doing something wrong by succeeding.”
“I’m not saying it’s wrong,” he says. “I’m saying it makes me feel like shit.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.
I notice the smell then. Sharp. Familiar.
“Have you been drinking?” I ask quietly.
He freezes.
“No.”
I step closer and see it—his backpack slumped against the wall, the faint clink of glass when it shifts. My stomach twists.
“Chase,” I say. “Please don’t lie to me.”
He exhales sharply. “It helps me sleep.”
“That’s what you said last time,” I reply. “And the time before that.”
“It’s not a problem,” he snaps. “You’re making it one.”
“I’m scared,” I say, surprising myself with how raw my voice sounds. “You’re not the same lately. You’re angry. You disappear. You drink.”
“Stop monitoring me,” he says harshly. “I’m not one of your projects.”
“I’m not treating you like a project,” I insist. “I’m treating you like someone I love.”
He laughs again, sharp and humorless. “That’s the problem. Love isn’t supposed to feel like surveillance.”
The word stings.
“I’m worried about you,” I say. “About what you might do to yourself.”
His eyes flash. “Don’t.”
“And sometimes,” I continue, my voice trembling, “I’m worried about what you might do to someone else when you’re like this.”
The room goes very still.
“That’s a fucked-up thing to say,” he says quietly.
“I know,” I whisper. “But it’s how I feel.”
He steps toward me, stopping just short of touching me. His jaw is tight, his eyes dark.
“You think I’m dangerous,” he says.
“I think you’re hurting,” I reply. “And I don’t know how to help anymore.”
He turns away abruptly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“But you didn’t stop me either,” I say. “You let me believe I could fix this.”
“I never said that,” he mutters.
“No,” I agree. “You just let me try.”
The fight escalates from there, words stacking on top of each other, old resentments resurfacing like wounds we never let heal. He accuses me of being condescending. I accuse him of giving up. He says I don’t understand him. I say he won’t let me.
At some point, I realize we’re not fighting to resolve anything anymore.
We’re fighting to win.
“I feel like I’m shrinking myself just to keep you comfortable,” I say, my voice breaking. “Like every step forward I take pushes you further away.”
“Maybe stop stepping forward then,” he snaps.
The sentence hangs between us, heavy and unforgivable.
I stare at him, something inside me cracking.
“I can’t,” I say softly.
He looks at me like he already knew that.
“Then what are we doing?” he asks.
I don’t have an answer.
That night, after he leaves, I sit on my bed with my knees pulled to my chest, replaying the fight over and over. My hands shake slightly, adrenaline still coursing through me. I check my phone compulsively, half-expecting a message from him. Half-dreading it.
Nothing comes.
I think about his eyes when I mentioned being scared. The way they hardened, like I’d crossed a line. Maybe I did. But pretending I’m not afraid doesn’t make it go away.
I keep imagining worst-case scenarios. Him drunk and reckless. Him alone with his thoughts. Him spiraling somewhere I can’t reach.
I don’t know what’s haunting him. He won’t tell me. And that ignorance feels like another wall between us, tall and solid.
The next few days blur together in a cycle of tension and fragile truces. We argue, apologize, pretend everything is fine for a few hours, then do it all again. Every conversation feels like a tug-of-war—me pulling toward growth, him pulling toward escape.
When he drinks, his temper flares more easily. A careless comment becomes an accusation. A question becomes an attack. I start choosing my words carefully, editing myself mid-sentence, afraid of setting him off.
I hate that version of myself.
I hate how small I feel when I catch myself thinking, If I just say this differently, he won’t get angry.
That’s not love. That’s fear.
One night, after another argument that ends with him storming out, I sit alone in the dark, my phone in my hand, debating whether to call his mother. The thought makes my chest tighten.
Would that be betrayal?
Or would it be necessary?