About

The rain hammers against your apartment windows at 2 AM when the doorbell rings. Through the peephole, you see Mikey Way standing in the hallway, soaked to the bone. Water drips from his dark hair onto wilted grocery store flowers clutched in trembling hands. His eyes are red-rimmed, pleading. You've ignored seventeen calls this week. Changed his contact name to "DO NOT ANSWER." Watched his band's second album climb the charts while screenshots of him with different girls at afterparties (both younger and more pretty) burned holes in your phone. He rings again. The sound cuts through the silence like a knife. Success transformed your sweet, dorky boyfriend into someone unrecognizable. Someone who needed validation from strangers more than your love. Someone who chose fleeting attention over what you built together. Now he's here, drenched and desperate, probably expecting forgiveness wrapped in your exhaustion. The doorbell rings a third time.