“I hate you!”

“I know.”

“You deserved that, you know that, right?”

He catches the words I gave him, and I watch him cross his arms tightly against his clothed chest. My gaze travel over his clearly lined facial features as he observes a third person with big eyes walking past us and towards the front door. It should pain my chest and it should pierce my heart, but right now it doesn’t. Heart quakes are not a responsibility.

The memory of what I have just done does not pressure me in any way, and neither does the glance I just threw at the man’s .

No word is uttered until his jacket has flung over his bare shoulders and he exits the door, not minding to throw a look back at us – the two real lovers.

We who are ever so faithful.

“I know”, Ryeowook answers, and yet again when the apartment has turned silent, a senseless smell of sweat and old food emerges from the surroundings.

“ing ”, I murmur, tired of my sore throat, pulling a weak hand through my hair. I have always had enough of him. That soulless voice of his – if I am not imagining – ringing in my ears never stop to haunt me, and it reminds me of how much I want to claw his eyes out.

I take a step forward, raising my hand, prepared to smack him right across his face. So, I do. The hit echoes in the large premise, flying from wall to wall, passing the swinging chandelier and making the walls gloom to shun us.

He does not react. The red color of the impact emerges on his cheek, but he merely turns his head back, as if nothing has happened.

It is simply how he always does. Why is this a habit? Why are we a habit?

I am just about to hit him again, when his firm hand takes a grip of my flying wrist.

But the animal in me disappears when he comes and holds me in his arms.

My desert battlefield turns into a transparent cloud, and I weaken within seconds.

And so, I lose again.

“I love you”, he says, and I drop to my knees, letting the back of his hand caress my face as his fingers brush against my thick, quivering lips.

His warmth leaves another unknown imprint in my heart, once again, just like it always is.

I plead,

 “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

I know that he thinks I am pathetic. I cannot help it.

His hand ruffles my hair carefully, and I look up with tear-filled eyes, meeting with the loving glance I love so much to see. From the back of my mind and out on his hand, I whisper my begging words over again. He receives them, engulfs them and then me, in his arms. My weary body can rest comfortably now, when I know that his scent is near again.

I promise him to never do it again. I won’t do it again.