Flowing back to you

I don’t remember when we started hurting ourselves more than they ever could, but I know it felt like the only way to stay afloat. Whatever we say, no matter how cruel or quiet, we always find our way back—dragging ourselves through the same bruised loop of friendship, where love sounds like hush-toned insults and apologies come too late to matter.

Some people fall in love. We fell into each other like wounds—unhealed, reopened, and always bleeding just beneath the surface. We said things no one should ever say and meant them just enough to scar. But somehow, we still came back. Like pain was the only language we ever learned to speak right.

Sometimes, I think we hurt each other just to feel something. Like the silence between us is so loud, we need to break it with bruises—verbal, emotional, whatever works. There’s no catharsis. No breakdowns. Just these quiet detonations, and then the routine of pretending again. We sit next to each other like nothing happened, eyes forward, hearts wrecked. And maybe that’s the worst part—we’ve learned how to live inside the wreckage without ever trying to leave it.

I remember the night he told me I was nothing. Not in anger. Not in a shout.

Just a quiet, offhand whisper in the middle of a conversation about something else entirely—like it was a fact, like the weather.

And I remember nodding. Not crying. Not breaking. I'm just nodding, like I agreed. Like I already knew. We didn’t talk for three days after that. Then he showed up at my door with a half-eaten bag of chips and said, "Wanna go walk somewhere?"

I said yeah like I wasn’t still carrying those words around like broken glass in my throat.

He once called me a burden in the middle of a joke. Everyone laughed. I didn't. Neither did he.We sat under a bridge once, our knees bleeding from running. He looked at me and said, "Do you ever feel like if you disappeared, no one would even flinch?" I told him yes. He didn’t answer.

I texted “I hate you” one night. He left it on read. The next morning, he asked if I wanted to skip school and get breakfast.We broke each other in places our parents already cracked. That’s why we fit so well.

He once said I talk too much when I cry. I haven’t cried in front of him since.One night, I told him I didn’t want to be here anymore. He said, “Same,” and lit a cigarette. We never talked about it again.

Quintin's pov

Saying I love you feels loose. Empty. Like something you say just to fill space between the damage.But when she says it—her voice doesn’t crack, her hands don’t shake—only her eyes betray her.

They're full of sorrow, like she’s mourning the person she used to be before loving me, meant surviving me.

Maybe I just don’t really want to if I did, she wouldn't be here taking my shit. The thought sits there, like something rotting under the floorboards. I shift my weight, spoon circling through melted yogurt I’m not even eating anymore. She’s still looking at me. Waiting. She stopped waiting for apologies a while ago when alya fell onto the pavement as i pushed her laughing at her joke. She woke up in the hospital, smiled at me i lefted the room clutching my heart. But not now I really think she’s waiting for something worse something honest and that's the most scariest part about her. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I say anyway.

It sounds wrong the second it leaves my mouth. I never enjoyed apologizing. Practiced. Like I’ve said it before the fire. Alya lets out this small breath not quite disappointment. Something tired. “You never do,” she says.

She doesn’t say it to hurt me. That’s the problem. If she snapped, if she got angry, I could push back. I could defend myself, make it loud, make it messy you know? What we've been taught and what we're good for. She just accepts it. Like this is who I am, it is she knows me to well, i hatred for it another person knowing me. Seeing right through me. Like this is what loving me costs. I hate that she makes it look so easy to stay. A car passes somewhere behind us, tires hissing against the road. Someone inside the shop laughs. “You don’t have to keep doing that,” she adds, quieter now. “Doing what?” “Acting like it’s nothing.” IT IS nothing. That’s what I want to say. Just a joke. Just words.

Her eyes don’t let me get away with that. Gosh why does she have to be so emotional. I shrug instead, because that’s easier. “It was just a joke.” There it is. The same line. The same excuse. The same blade, just dressed up differently. She nods like she expected it. Of course she did. Alya finally looks away from me, down at her hands, turning the plastic spoon between her fingers like she’s trying to decide what to do with it. Or maybe what to do with me. “I know, it just feels like your hurting me cause your trying your hardest not to cut anymore” she says.

And somehow that hurts more than if she didn’t. Silence stretches between us, thin and fragile. I could fix it. I know I could. Just say it right. Just mean it. Just tell her. My chest tightens like the words are trying to claw their way out, but they get stuck somewhere halfway up. Like I haven’t earned them. I look at her again. Really look this time. And for a second, I see it who she used to be. Someone lighter. Someone who didn’t love me. “I love you,” I say. It comes out quiet. Ayla shakes her head “that won't get you out the cage” “why are we doing whatever this relationship or none relationship thingy if you'll be rude” I don't answer her cause I know i can't. I don't know why she makes my heart feel this way but I do know that I haven't felt this way in a while. I want to hold onto this feeling at least untill it gives out.