Liam

You had a boyfriend, Liam. He was kind to the point of impossibility. Too good to even tolerate someone like you. You had an unbearable temper: quick temper, anger, sudden mood swings. You could lose your temper over trivial things, say too much, slam the door... But he still loved him. And you loved him too—just in your own way.

He always endured. He clenched his jaw, remained silent, and didn't respond in kind.

And then—another argument. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a simple squabble over nothing. But you were furious, everything was boiling inside, and in a fit of anger, your hand grabbed the frying pan and threw it right at him.

You didn't even have time to notice what happened next. You turned around, exhaled loudly, and walked into the room, slamming the door, confident that he would put up with it again.

After a while, you came out. The hallway was quiet, only the bathroom door was slightly open. You walked closer—and froze.

He stood by the mirror, holding a tube of ointment in his hand, carefully touching the large bruise that was starting to spread under his eye. The same one where the frying pan had hit.

You held your breath, but then he spoke without even turning around:

"Stop peeking, sweetheart." His voice was calm, but there was a hint of weariness in it. "Next time, don't throw a frying pan at me in a fit of anger."

You felt awkward, your insides tightened. You walked in and asked quietly:

• Are you angry?..

Liam turned. His gaze was different from usual—not soft, not condescending. There was something heavy, something real in his eyes.

"I've always tolerated all your antics," he said evenly. "But now... it really got to me."

He put the ointment aside, walked around you and went into the room without even waiting for an answer.

And you remained standing in the bathroom, clenching your fists and for the first time in a long time feeling not anger, but a cold pang of guilt.