Rafe Cameron Imagines

I'm an Addict, You're a Bitch🤍

It was almost midnight, the kind of night where the air was so heavy it stuck to your lungs. You stepped outside without even realizing you were doing it, arms folded across your chest so tightly it felt like you were holding yourself together by force. The screen door creaked behind you, and Rafe was there in seconds, voice already sharp.

"So that's it? You're just gonna storm out like a drama queen because I didn't say the right shit this time?"

You didn't even look at him. "I'm not storming out. I'm breathing. That's all I'm doing—breathing for the first time in weeks."

Rafe's jaw clenched. "Don't do that. Don't talk to me like you're some innocent victim. Like I didn't tell you who the fuck I was from day one."

"And I believed you could be more than that," you snapped. "God, Rafe, I wanted to believe you could change. And maybe that was stupid, but you let me."

He laughed, mean and tired. "Yeah, well, maybe you're just as fucked as I am if you thought love was gonna magically make me not a screw-up."

"I didn't think love was magic," you hissed. "But I thought it meant something. I thought it meant you'd at least try."

"I do try," he barked, stepping toward you. "You think it's easy for me? You think I wake up every morning and just feel fine? I'm fighting shit you couldn't even begin to understand."

"I don't want you to feel fine, Rafe. I want you to feel something." You were shaking now. "Because right now, all I see is a guy who's so numb he'd rather get high than answer my calls. Who looks me in the eye and lies to me like it's nothing."

"I'm not lying," he muttered, eyes narrowing.

"Oh my god—Rafe, I found your coke. In the bathroom vent. You're not even trying to hide it anymore."

His mouth opened, then closed. For once, he had nothing to say.

"I begged you," you whispered. "I begged you to be honest. I held you through withdrawals. I let you scream at me. I picked up every goddamn broken piece of you, and you looked me in the face and swore you were clean."

"I didn't want you to worry," he mumbled, barely audible now.

"You didn't want me to leave," you corrected. "You didn't want to lose your little safety net."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" you asked. "Because I've been drowning in this relationship for months, and the second I ask for air, you act like I stabbed you."

Rafe was pacing now, one hand tugging at his hair like he could physically pull the frustration out of his skull. "You always do this. You turn everything around on me like I'm the monster and you're just this perfect little angel."

"I never said I was perfect," you snapped. "But I'm not the one who disappears for days. I'm not the one who gets high and picks fights and throws shit across the room when I don't get my way."

"Don't," he warned, voice low. "Don't act like I'm some abusive psycho."

"You are abusive, Rafe," you said, your voice barely holding steady. "Not with your fists. But with everything else. The gaslighting. The guilt. The way you look at me like I'm the one ruining your life just by loving you."

He looked like you slapped him.

And you weren't done.

"You love me like I'm a possession. Like I'm here to fix you, fill you, save you. But I can't. I'm not your fucking rehab."

"Then what are you?" he spat. "Because it sure as hell doesn't feel like you're my girlfriend when all you do is pick me apart."

"I'm the girl who gave a damn when no one else did," you said. "I'm the girl who sat on the floor with you for six hours while you puked your guts out from withdrawal. I'm the girl who listened to you cry about your dad and didn't run. I'm the girl who stayed, Rafe."

"And now you're the girl walking away," he whispered.

"I'm the girl who has to." Your voice cracked again. "Because if I don't leave now, I never will. And you'll keep destroying me, one piece at a time."

Silence.

Then he said, flatly, "So that's it. You're done."

You blinked hard, the tears falling without permission. "You want to know the truth?"

He didn't respond.

"You're an addict. And I'm a bitch for staying this long."

His breath caught. "Don't say that."

"Why not?" you asked, laughing bitterly through the ache. "You've called me worse. Every time I try to help, I'm a 'nag,' or a 'buzzkill,' or a 'cold bitch.' But I was just trying to keep you alive."

"I didn't ask you to," he said, not meeting your eyes.

"No. But you let me. And then you hated me for it."

He stepped forward, reaching for you. "I can change."

"You could've," you whispered. "But you didn't want to."

"I do want to—"

"No," you said. "You want me to stay. That's not the same."

Another long silence.

Then, in the quietest voice, like it hurt him to say it out loud:

"I'm an addict."

You nodded, fresh tears streaking down your face. "And I'm a bitch."

"I never meant to hurt you," he said, eyes glossy now. "I just... I don't know how to be loved."

"I loved you anyway," you whispered. "I still do."

He looked at you like that was worse than hate.

And maybe it was.

When you turned away, he didn't follow. Just stood there, watching you disappear down the porch steps, barefoot and broken and done.

And when the door finally shut behind you, he punched the wall so hard the drywall cracked—because for once, he couldn't lie to himself.

You weren't coming back.

And this time, he was the only one to blame.