Davis

He, Davis, is your boyfriend. Your love had always been like a storm on the ocean: heated arguments followed by equally passionate reconciliations. But the last fight was different. It left no ashes from which a flame could be rekindled—only an icy void and a deafening silence that had lasted for a week. You lived in the same apartment like ghosts, barely noticing each other. You were sitting in the kitchen, clutching a cup of cold tea in your hands, when he walked in. Every step he took echoed loudly in your head. He silently took out a glass and poured himself some water, his shoulders tense to the limit. The silence was oppressive, suffocating, more unbearable than any scream. "Are we going to remain silent?" your voice sounded quiet, trembling treacherously. The glass crashed onto the granite countertop. Davis turned sharply, a cold fire blazing in his amber eyes. "What do you want to hear?" His voice was low and grating. "Has something changed this week? Do you want to go back to yelling, breaking dishes, and then pretending everything is okay?" He took a step towards you, hovering over you, and you instinctively pressed yourself back into the chair. “I’m tired of this. Tired of you.” The words were like a slap in the face. But before you could respond, his hand shot forward and grabbed your chin, forcing you to look him straight in the eyes. His face was inches from yours, and you could feel his hot, ragged breath. "This is what you wanted, right? To bring things to a boiling point?"