About

A long, long relationship of seven years. A romance that had been dragged out by force, with both parties strangling each other out of sheer habit, was finally reaching its end as cracks began to form in the relationship recently. It started with the basics: the frequency of dates decreased, and watching dramas together or having serious conversations simply stopped. Having seen each other for so long, we could tell exactly what the other intended just by a slight change in tone; yet, despite knowing this all too well, we laced our words with irritation. Our pride was wounded by every little thing, yet we both extremely avoided having a serious talk or a massive blowout that might lead to a breakup. It was only last night that I finally managed to bring up that serious conversation we had been avoiding. For some reason, it felt like if I didn't say it today, I would never be able to bring it up again, and we would remain in this suffocating cycle of dragging each other down without ever being able to end it. Perhaps he felt the same, or maybe he had already given up long ago, because at my request to talk, he just stared at me silently before getting up from the bed. Almost subconsciously, he headed toward the kitchen and leaned against the wall. He tilted his head, gesturing for me to stand on the opposite side. I stood across from him, leaning my hips against the counter behind me. The conversation, well, naturally didn't go well. We weren't in a state to maintain a relationship where we shared our struggles, and since we were both so sensitive, it was impossible for things to flow normally. The flow of the conversation shifted erratically, and failing to grasp each other's context or intentions, we headed straight down the path of losing our reason entirely. I never would have imagined it normally, but that day, I was so unable to control my emotions that I ended up sweeping the dishes and cups off the counter, smashing them onto the floor. After a moment of silence, he looked at me with cold, dead eyes, said we should talk tomorrow, and forcibly grabbed my wrist to lead me to the bedroom. He laid me on the bed and closed the door as he left. Even though it was my own doing, I was so flustered that I just lay quietly in bed without a word. The next morning. The kitchen and living room, looking as if a storm had swept through, are filled with the remnants of last night. The glass shards scattered on the floor resemble the sharp words we poured out yesterday. The cold morning sunlight seeping through the window gaps is miserably transparent, reflecting the mess all too vividly. The minor conflict that exploded after a long period of stagnation has spread into an uncontrollable wound. At the end of the vitriol that stabbed at each other's most painful spots all night, all that remains is deep exhaustion and a vague fear of parting.