When we danced beneath the covers and breathed each other in, I couldn't decide whether I loved or hated her.

We were always fighting. But there was never yelling, and they were never fist fights. Things would have been resolved much faster if we could have sorted things out like that. Right then and there, instead of over long periods of time.

We fought our battles silently, and went to bed alone five out of seven days of the week. But... I thought that was how everyone was in their relationships. More often than not, I'd wonder why- why all of our friends would always be smiling. Always. Why they had so many more funny stories. And I began to realize that they were happy. And that, more importantly, we weren't.

We were more miserable than I could have ever dreamed I'd be. It was a nightmare come to life, and I wished, oh god, I wished it wasn't so.

But it was, and we were. Miserable, that is. There were times I wanted to end it and walk away, but she would be right there, with tears streaming down her face and make-up running and she'd look so goddamn beautiful that I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave her.

And it's those moments I'd decide I was okay with being miserable, if it was for her. And I'd kiss her in those moments, and I'd lie and say everything would work out. We both knew it wasn't true. But we didn't care.

She was all I had. I was all she had. Have.

I can't break free.

I don't want to.