I need him more than he needs me. His vice is a bottle of whiskey. Mine is his body. So when we fight, I’m the one who loses out in the end. “Do you want to break up?” he offers me the same out. It’d be easier to let him go, to return to our regular rituals, but now that I’ve had him, I can’t imagine not being swept in his arms and being fulfilled to the highest degree. He’s my drug that I gladly consume, and I think that’s what he fears most. He enables my addiction. Always has. And the longer we’re together, he always will.
