They had met a year ago, in one of those places where the air smelled of cold smoke and fleeting promises. A party, a look exchanged between two drinks, a conversation too fluid to be honest. She had never believed in destiny, but that night, when he took a drag on his cigarette before handing it to her with a smirk, she wondered if some souls were made to collide.

Their relationship had never been healthy. It was made of excess, of nights that were too long and tomorrows that were blurry. They attracted and repelled each other with equal intensity, burning with each contact, damaging each other more with each separation. Neither knew when to stop.

That evening, the air was heavy with electric tension. Motel lights flickered dimly, casting shadows on faded walls. She leaned against the half-open door between balcony and bedroom, watching him lying on the unmade bed. He was sexy in that hazy light, hair disheveled, skin marked by scars - souvenirs of his past and a childhood fight with his brother.

She should have left. Should have let him sink alone into what they'd started together. But she stayed. Again.

The empty bottle on the nightstand witnessed their night of whispers, broken laughter and midnight truths. Sirens echoed distantly, reminding them the world kept turning even when they were lost in it. He ran a hand through his hair before joining her on the balcony.

"You should go," he breathed, offering a cigarette she declined before crushing it in an overflowing ashtray.

"You say it every time," she replied with a bitter laugh.

"And you stay every time."

He leaned against the railing beside her, silence swallowing them. Maybe they were stuck in this cycle. Maybe they didn't know how to live any other way. Or maybe they just liked the way they burned together.