I can’t breathe without you.
The rain had stopped, but the air still felt heavy—thick with the kind of humidity that clung to your skin like a secret. Nina stood at her bedroom window, the city lights blurring through the wet glass. Her phone buzzed for the tenth time that hour. She didn't need to look. It was him.
I am waiting for you.
"You came," he said, voice rough.
Their relationship was a storm. Beautiful, electric, and destructive. When it was good, it was a symphony—his hands tracing her spine, the way he'd hum her favorite song while making coffee, the way he said her name like a prayer. But when it was bad, it was a blackout. The slammed doors. The disappearing acts. The apologies that came wrapped in roses and promises he never kept.
The elevator doors opened. The rain had stopped. And there he was, leaning against a lamppost, dripping wet, holding a single red tulip—her favorite.
Don’t you feel it too?
She remembered the first time she saw Marcus. It was at a rooftop party, the summer air drunk on jasmine and cheap champagne. He wasn't the loudest in the room, but he was the anchor. When he looked at her, it wasn't just a glance—it was a slow, deliberate study, like she was a melody he was trying to memorize. He’d whispered something in her ear that night, something she’d pretended not to hear. "You're the kind of love that ruins you for anyone else."