How Sweet by NewJeans
Y/N's POV:
The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of stale coffee and unspoken tension. Haerin, perched on the edge of the worn-out couch, flicked her blonde hair over her shoulder, the movement a familiar, irritatingly practiced gesture.
"You're so quiet," she said, her voice a melodic whine, "What's wrong?"
It was the typical start to our routine, a dance we’d been waltzing through for months. It started with a contrived accusation, a subtle attempt to provoke a reaction, and then the inevitable explosion.
The "What's wrong" was a trigger, a subtle way of reminding me that I was responsible for her mood, for her happiness, for her very existence.
"Nothing," I mumbled, looking down at my hands.
"Don't be like that," she pouted, "Just tell me what's wrong."
The words felt like a weight on my chest, heavy and suffocating. I could feel the familiar sting of frustration rising, a bitter tide threatening to engulf me.
"I'm just tired," I said, hoping it would be enough.
"Tired of what?" Her voice rose an octave, a thin thread of anger tightening around the room.
My silence was her cue. "Is it me? Do you not want to be here?"
The words were a poisoned arrow, piercing the thin veil of peace I’d been trying to maintain. I felt the familiar heat rise in my cheeks, a sign of my surrender.
"No, it's not you," I sighed, "I just need some space."
"You always need space," she huffed, her voice laced with a bitter resentment that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
The usual routine unfolded. Another accusation, another argument, another apology. It was a simple formula, each component predictable and exhausting.
"Why are you doing this?" She asked, her voice a mixture of hurt and manipulation.
"Doing what?"
"This," she gestured wildly with her hand, "This whole 'you need space' charade."
"It's not a charade," I insisted, my voice trembling. "I just need some time to myself."
"For what? To think about other girls?"
"No!" The word burst out of me, raw and desperate.
But the damage was already done. The arrow had found its mark, leaving a deep, festering wound in my heart.
I stared at her, her face contorted in a mixture of anger and hurt, and I realized something. I’d felt this way for months.
This was the only reality I knew, a reality where my feelings were secondary, where my needs were irrelevant, where the air I breathed was constantly laced with the bitter tang of her disapproval.
"I'm done," I whispered, the words a tremor in the air.
She froze. Her hand, extended in a desperate attempt to grab mine, fell limply to her side. The room held its breath.
"Done with what?" Her voice was a shaky whisper.
"Done with this," I said, gesturing to the entire room, to the years we had spent trapped in this endless cycle, "Done with us."
The air filled with a heavy silence. It was a silence laden with unspoken emotions, a silence that stretched out before us, a blank canvas for the future.
I left that night, my footsteps light and my shoulders lighter. The city lights blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors, a silent symphony of freedom. I breathed deeply, the city air tasting sweet, almost intoxicating.
