Waste of Your Time

There was a time when mornings with Ezra meant laughter and sunlight.

Coffee brewing. Her hair tangled from sleep. His arms wrapped around her waist while he hummed some off-key tune into her shoulder. It used to be easy then—love came without effort, without question. The apartment smelled like cinnamon candles and burnt toast, and their biggest fight was over who forgot to buy milk.

That was two years ago. Before the silence started speaking louder than either of them did.

Now, the same apartment felt smaller. The air heavier. The walls that once echoed with inside jokes and whispered I love you’s now held their arguments like secrets. The scent of cinnamon had long been replaced by the faint bitterness of old coffee and stale air.

Avery sat on the edge of the couch, her legs curled under her, staring at the half-empty wine glasses on the coffee table. One for her. One for him. The remains of another night that had begun with hope and ended in exhaustion.

The argument had started over something stupid—his phone left face down, another late reply, her tone that “sounded off.” But the truth was, they both knew it wasn’t really about that. It hadn’t been for a long time. Every small thing had become a spark for the same fire they couldn’t put out.

The fight was done now, though. The words had already been thrown like knives, and she was left bleeding quietly in the aftermath.

From the bedroom, she heard Ezra moving. Drawers opening and closing. The floorboards creaking under his steady pace. Not packing, not leaving. Just… pacing. A rhythm she’d learned by heart.

She closed her eyes and listened, the silence between them heavier than the argument itself. She remembered how, when they first moved in together, that same silence used to mean comfort. They could sit in it for hours, reading or cooking or just existing. Now, it was punishment.

When he finally appeared in the doorway, the dim light from the living room cast sharp lines across his face. He looked tired—his dark hair a little messy, his expression unreadable.

“You’re still upset?” he asked, like he didn’t already know the answer.

She kept her eyes on the glass in her hand. “Shouldn’t I be?”

He sighed, stepping closer, his tone flat. “Avery, I’m not doing this again.”

Her laugh came out softer than she expected. “Then don’t.”

He dropped onto the chair across from her, elbows on his knees, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “You twist everything I say.”

“And you never say what you mean.”

He shot her a look—half irritation, half disbelief. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is being made to feel like I’m too much and not enough at the same time,” she said quietly.

That shut him up. For a second, anyway.

Ezra leaned back, his fingers tapping against his knee. “You always make it sound like I’m the villain,” he muttered.

“You make it too easy,” she whispered.

He exhaled hard, like she’d taken the air out of him. “You don’t even know what you want anymore, do you?”

That was the worst part—he wasn’t wrong. She didn’t know. Not really. She wanted him to love her again, but she also wanted to stop begging for it. She wanted peace, but she was terrified of what life would look like without him in it.

“I want you to stop making me feel like I’m impossible to love,” she said, her voice breaking before she could stop it.

His gaze softened, almost apologetic—but only almost. “Avery, you’re being dramatic.”

And there it was. The line that always ended the conversation. The subtle dismissal that turned her pain into an overreaction.

She swallowed hard, forcing a smile she didn’t mean. “You always know what to say to make it worse.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I don’t want to fight anymore,” he said, his tone clipped but not cruel.

“Then don’t.”

“I’m trying, Ave.”

“No,” she said. “You’re managing. There’s a difference.”

He blinked, surprised. He wasn’t used to her pushing back. Not like this.

For a moment, neither spoke. Rain had started outside, a slow drizzle that painted the window in streaks of light. She could hear the faint hum of the city below—car horns, laughter, a dog barking somewhere far away. The world was still turning, even if theirs wasn’t.

Ezra stood, brushing invisible dust from his jeans. “I’m going to bed.”

Avery nodded without looking up. “Okay.”

He lingered for a second, waiting for her to ask him to stay, to apologize first like she always did. When she didn’t, he sighed and walked away. The bedroom door clicked shut.

And just like that, she was alone again.

She stared at the empty space he left behind. Her reflection in the window looked older somehow, like grief had carved small lines into her face when she wasn’t paying attention.

The first time he told her he loved her, she had cried. It was in this same apartment, on a Tuesday night after too much wine. He had said it so casually, like it had always been true. She’d believed it then. She’d believed in them.

Now she wasn’t sure what she believed in anymore.

Avery stood, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. The fabric smelled faintly like him. She hated that it still comforted her.

The wine in her glass had gone warm, but she drank it anyway. She thought about the girl she used to be—the one who smiled too easily, who believed love was enough to fix anything. That girl had built a life with Ezra, brick by brick, until she realized he’d stopped helping.

“Say you want me,” she whispered into the quiet, her voice shaking.

But no one answered.

She sat there until the wine was gone and the rain turned to a steady rhythm against the glass. Somewhere between exhaustion and heartbreak, she let her head rest against the couch and closed her eyes.

Maybe tomorrow, things would be better.

Or maybe they’d just be the same.

Either way, she’d keep pretending.

For now.