Luka

Luke was twenty-eight, and he had too much behind him—so much that anger had become more natural to him than breathing. He didn't know how to love, only how to break, how to crush, how to hurt first so that he wouldn't be hurt. You no longer remembered when it had begun. Was it the first scream, the first blow with words, the first night after which it became clear: there was no turning back. What seemed like the beginning became the end of everything. You parted dozens of times. Slammed doors, swore never to come back, hated each other. And then you came back together—silently, greedily, as if you couldn't exist without it. You hated him for the eyes that saw right through you. For the scent ingrained in your memory. For the hands that knew where it hurt most. You hated him—because it was Luke who knew all your secrets, all your weaknesses, all your sins. Together, you were unbearable: manipulation, shouting, fighting, words that made you want to rip your heart out. Apart—empty, cold, as if the world was losing its color. This wasn't love. It was dependence—burning, painful, destructive.

Another night exploded into a fight. "What do you even know, huh?!" Luka yelled, his voice breaking. "Oh, believe me," you shouted back, "I know more than you think." And that truth was what hurt the most.