The room they were lying in was dark. Only thing illuminating their intervened bodies was a faint ray of moonlight. They knew it was their last night, nothing could be done. She was wondering if it was for the best or will this parting tear her apart. He was pretending to sleep while his insides were contacting with pain. It seemed that his whole body was rejecting the moment which silently was creeping closer. She breathed in his scent and it burned in her lungs. They hated each other but hate was only a step away from love, it was a desire born out of confusion.

She remembered yelling, screaming, shouting at him and calling him all the worst words possible and then when he finally snapped and threw her body against the wall, the passionate make out sessions. It was pain and pleasure, heaven and hell.

He remembered longing for her. Everything about her made him alight. Her face, body and when she flirted with others while throwing knowing smirks his way, well aware that he wouldn’t do anything in front of them. Those days he got drunk and then called her, leaving her voicemails cursing her. Later he would call again to say that he loved her and he’s sorry. Somehow she always won. Perhaps, he often wondered, because she loved him less.

Once, he hit her. Not in a rough “I want to have with you” way but more like “I want to cause you real pain” way. It was reflective moment for both of them. They didn’t break up but rather took a pause.

Her life seemed to actually stop. After a few days she understood that she hadn’t left the house even once. Was it because she was ashamed of the purple bruise decorating her cheek or because she didn’t want to see anyone but him? She didn’t even remember the last time she ate. This was the moment she realized that her love was real, it wasn’t a momentary desire or infatuation. She realized that she wouldn’t mind being hit again, if she could spend a day with him again.

He didn’t know what to do with his sudden freedom.  He certainly didn’t know how to enjoy it and the guilt ate him up at nights when he silently lay in his bed and sleep didn’t come. To make it stop he drank. A lot. The week they spent apart killed him and his liver. And the alcohol didn’t help forget but rather emphasised the emotional pain he felt after what he done. He figured he was a masochist because he welcomed the pain with open arms. He deserved it.

Again he called first, begging forgiveness and asking to meet again. They met and spent the night in each other’s embrace. They both were a mess but it was one of the rare night they didn’t fight. Only thing between them were pants, gasps, moans and cries but those told stories darker and more passionate than any words could.

She knew she must have been crazy to forgive him and to trust him again. This relationship was toxic and it poisoned them. Next time he hit her, she back with an empty beer bottle. Then she called an ambulance. It was an accident. Her boyfriend is very clumsy. Everyone believed them.

One day, she suggested something, her nose was bleeding and he wanted to make bleed too. He disagreed at first. His cheek was cut open. After thinking about it he decided that he wanted his life back, permanently. If they continued to date he would want to end his life, permanently.

So they were laying in a dark room with only moonlight illuminating their bodies.