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You shoved some popcorn into your mouth just to break the moment.
“Stop staring,” you said, muffled.
“Can’t,” he replied quietly.
You shot him a look. “You absolutely can.”
He shook his head a little, slow, stubborn even like this.
“Haven’t seen you in two months,” he said. “Lemme look.”
Your chest tightened again.
You hated how simple he made things sound.
Like it was that easy.
Like nothing else mattered.
You looked away first, focusing on the TV, even though nothing was playing yet.
“…You’re still annoying,” you muttered.
A faint huff of a laugh left him, real this time, even if it was quiet.
“Yeah,” he said. “You like that.”
You scoffed, but there was no heat in it. “You’re delusional.”
“Little bit,” he admitted.
Silence settled again, but it felt… different now.
Less sharp.
Still fragile, still complicated — but softer around the edges.
You reached for the remote, turning something random on just to fill the space with noise.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You ate your popcorn.
He watched you.
Occasionally sipping the leftover water, occasionally shifting slightly like he couldn’t fully get comfortable in his own body.
And then—
“…Missed this,” he murmured.
You didn’t look at him. “Watching TV?”
A small pause.
Then, quieter—
“…Being near you.”
Your hand paused halfway to the bowl.
There it was again.
That thing he kept doing, saying simple shit that landed way too deep.
You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to keep your tone steady. “You lost that, Roman.”
“I know.”
Always that.
Always I know.
You finally looked at him again.
He wasn’t smiling now.
Just… watching you. Calm. Honest. A little broken.
“I’m not trying to get it back tonight,” he added softly, like he could feel where your mind went.
That made you hesitate.
“…Then what are you doing?” you asked, quieter now.
He thought for a second — actually thought.
Then shrugged slightly, eyes still on you.
“Just sitting here,” he said. “With you.”
Simple.
Again.
Too simple.
You stared at him for a second longer… then looked back at the TV, grabbing another handful of popcorn.
“…You’re staying on that side,” you muttered.
A faint smile pulled at his lips again.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”
But he didn’t stop looking at you.
And you didn’t tell him to.
You kept your eyes on the TV for a second longer, chewing slowly, like you were deciding whether to say it or not.
Then you looked at him.
“You said you came because you wanted to see me… to know that I still exist,” you said, brows pulling together slightly. “The fuck do you mean by that?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Of course he didn’t.
His head tilted back against the couch, eyes drifting to the ceiling like he was trying to find the words up there. His fingers rubbed slowly against each other, restless, unfocused.
“It sounds crazy,” he murmured.
“It does,” you replied immediately.
A faint breath left him, not quite a laugh.
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched for a second.
Then his gaze dropped back to you.
“Everything’s been… off,” he said slowly. “Since you left.”
You didn’t correct him.
Didn’t say since we broke up.
He noticed.
“I don’t mean like— sad,” he added, frowning slightly like he was trying to explain something he didn’t fully understand himself. “I mean… not real.”
Your expression shifted, just a little.
“What does that even mean?” you asked, quieter now.
He shrugged faintly, frustrated.
“Like I’m there, but I’m not,” he said. “Talking to people, doing shit, shows, whatever… and it’s just— noise.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Faces blur. Conversations don’t stick. I don’t remember half of it the next day.”
You watched him carefully now.
He wasn’t exaggerating.
Wasn’t performing.
“…And you?” you asked.
His eyes flickered.
“You didn’t,” he said simply.
Your breath caught, barely noticeable.
“I remember you,” he continued, softer now. “All of it. Dumb shit, too. The way you—” he gestured vaguely, frustrated again, “—how you move around your place, how you get annoyed at small things, the way you eat—” a faint, almost dazed look crossed his face, “—like right now.”
You looked down at your hand holding the popcorn.
Then back at him.
“That’s creepy,” you muttered, but it lacked real bite.
He shook his head slightly. “No, it’s just—”
He stopped.
Tried again.
“You’re… clear,” he said.
That word landed weirdly.
“Everything else feels like I’m looking through something,” he went on, tapping lightly near his temple. “Like there’s a layer between me and it. But you—”
A pause.
His voice dropped.
“You don’t.”
Silence.
You stared at him, your chest tightening in a way you didn’t like.
“That doesn’t mean anything, Roman,” you said after a second, even if it sounded more like you were convincing yourself. “That’s just— you being fucked up all the time.”
“I know,” he said.
Again.
But this time, he didn’t stop there.
“That’s why I came,” he added quietly.
You frowned. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
A beat.
“I just—” he swallowed slightly, eyes dropping for a second before coming back to you, “—needed to check.”
“Check what?”
“That you were still like this.”
Your brows pulled together. “Like what?”
He looked at you for a long second.
Then, softer—
“Real.”
Your chest tightened again, sharper this time.
You let out a quiet, disbelieving breath, shaking your head slightly. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” he murmured.
But he didn’t look away.
Didn’t take it back.
And that was the problem.
Because as much as you wanted to brush it off, reduce it to him being high, him being messy, him being *him*—
There was something about the way he said it that didn’t feel like bullshit.
That felt… grounded.
You looked away first, jaw tightening slightly.
“…You don’t get to come here just because I make you feel real,” you said quietly.
“I know.”
Always that.
Always I know.
But he didn’t argue.
Didn’t push.
He just sat there, watching you like you were something steady in a world that kept slipping through his fingers.
And the worst part?
A small, quiet part of you understood exactly what he meant.
You let out a sharp breath, setting the popcorn down harder than you meant to.
The sound cut through the room.
“Stop saying that,” you snapped, turning to him fully now. “Stop acting like I’m some—some anchor you can just come back to whenever your life gets too fucked up.”
His expression didn’t change much.
That almost made it worse.
“I’m not,” he said quietly.
“You are,” you shot back immediately. “That’s exactly what you’re doing. You disappear, you ruin everything, you turn into—” you gestured at him, frustrated, “—this, and then you show up at my door talking about how I’m the only thing that feels real?”
Your voice cracked slightly at the end, and you hated that.
“I didn’t come to put that on you,” he said.
“But you did!” you snapped. “You don’t even hear yourself, Roman. You’re basically saying you needed me so you wouldn’t feel like you’re losing your mind.”
A pause.
He didn’t deny it.
Didn’t defend it.
“…Yeah,” he said.
That hit harder than if he’d argued.
You stared at him, thrown off for a second. “That’s not okay.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
His jaw tightened slightly, something flickering across his face now, not anger, not exactly, but something closer to frustration. Not at you.
At himself.
“Because I didn’t know what else to do tonight,” he said, a little sharper now, even if his voice was still low. “I tried not coming. I tried staying away. I did that for two months.”
You crossed your arms tighter. “Good. You should’ve kept doing that.”
Something in his expression cracked at that.
Small.
Quick.
But there.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Probably.”
Silence hit again, heavier this time.
Tense.
Charged.
You swallowed, your chest rising and falling a little faster now. “You don’t get to miss me like this and then just show up. You don’t get to want me back when it’s convenient for you.”
“I don’t want something convenient,” he said, a little more firmly now.
You scoffed. “Oh, really? Because this looks pretty convenient to me. You’re high, you feel like shit, and suddenly it’s ‘I need my girl again.’”
His head snapped slightly at that.
Not aggressive.
But immediate.
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“No,” he said, more solid now despite everything else about him being unsteady. “It’s not.”
You held his gaze, challenging.
“Then say it properly,” you said. “Say what you actually mean.”
A long pause.
You could see it, the way he hesitated, the way his fingers curled slightly into his palms, like whatever he was about to say mattered more than everything else he’d said tonight.
“…I don’t just miss you when I’m like this,” he said finally.
Quieter.
But clearer.
You didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
“I miss you when I wake up,” he went on, voice steady in a way that cut through the haze he’d been in all night. “I miss you when shit’s loud, when it’s quiet, when I’m sober, when I’m not. It’s not—” he shook his head slightly, frustrated, “—it’s not a convenience thing.”
Your throat felt tight.
“You still fucked it up,” you said, but it came out softer than before.
“I know.”
“And you still chose all that over me.”
His jaw tightened again.
“I didn’t choose it over you,” he said. “I just… didn’t stop it. And that’s the same thing, I know.”
At least he wasn’t lying.
That almost pissed you off more.
“You don’t get points for being self-aware,” you muttered.
“I’m not asking for points.”
“Then what are you asking for?” you shot back.
That was the question.
The real one.
It hung there between you, heavy, unavoidable.
And for the first time since he got here—
He didn’t answer right away.
Didn’t deflect.
Didn’t say I know.
He just looked at you.
Really looked.
Like this was it. Like whatever came out of his mouth now actually mattered.
“…Nothing,” he said finally.
You frowned immediately. “That’s bullshit.”
“It’s not,” he insisted quietly. “I’m not asking you to take me back. I’m not asking you to fix anything. I know I don’t get that.”
“Then why are you here?” you demanded again, frustration bleeding through.
His voice dropped.
“Because I still love you.”
Silence.
It hit harder than anything else.
No hesitation.
No softness to cushion it.
Just… said.
Raw.
Real.
And suddenly the room felt too small again.
Your chest tightened, your mind scrambling for something, anger, logic, anything to push back with.
But for a second—
You had nothing.
And then,
It snapped.
Not slowly.
Not gracefully.
It just snapped.
You stood up so fast the bowl slipped from your hands, hitting the floor with a dull crack, popcorn scattering everywhere like it didn’t matter anymore, because it didn’t.
“Are you fucking serious right now?” your voice broke out of you, louder than anything you’d said all night. “Now you say that? Now you decide to show up and drop that on me like it’s supposed to mean something?”
Roman didn’t move.
Didn’t even flinch at the noise.
He just sat there, eyes on you, quiet.
That made it worse.
“You don’t get to do that!” you went on, pacing now, hands shaking as everything you’d been holding in for two months started clawing its way out. “You don’t get to come in here, high out of your mind, after disappearing on me, after making me feel like I was nothing, and say you love me like it fixes anything!”
“I’m not saying it fixes—”
“Then why say it?!” you cut him off immediately, voice cracking. “What, you think I don’t know that? You think that’s the problem?”
Your chest was rising fast now, breath uneven, words spilling over each other.
“The problem is you loved me and still chose everything else anyway,” you said, the anger sharpening into something deeper, something that hurt. “You loved me and still left me sitting alone while you were out getting fucked up, not answering your phone, not even remembering half the shit you did!”
He swallowed slightly.
Still didn’t interrupt.
“You made me feel crazy,” you went on, voice shaking harder now. “Like I was asking for too much just because I wanted you to be there. Like I was competing with drugs, with random people, with your fucking lifestyle—”
You let out a broken, breathless laugh.
“Do you know how pathetic that feels? To be in a relationship and still feel like you’re begging someone to choose you?”
Roman’s gaze dropped for a second at that.
Then back up.
Still quiet.
Still taking it.
“You stopped looking at me like I mattered,” you said, softer now, but it cut deeper. “You were there, but you weren’t there. I’d talk to you and it was like you were somewhere else. And I kept trying— I kept trying to pull you back, to fix it, to help you—”
Your voice broke.
“I was right there, Roman. I didn’t leave. You did.”
Silence.
Heavy.
You dragged a hand across your face, shaking your head like you were trying to get control back, but it was gone now. Everything you’d buried two months ago was out, raw and messy and impossible to take back.
“And the worst part?” you said, your voice quieter now but trembling, “I still loved you through all of it. I stayed. I made excuses for you. I told myself you were just going through something, that you’d come back, that you were still you under all that shit.”
You looked at him again, eyes burning.
“And you didn’t.”
That landed.
You could see it.
But he didn’t defend himself.
Didn’t argue.
Didn’t try to twist it.
He just sat there, shoulders slightly slumped, hands resting between his knees, looking at you like he already knew every word you were saying was true.
Like he’d been waiting to hear it.
Like he deserved it.
“…Say something,” you demanded, your voice smaller now, but sharper. “For once, just— say something.”
A pause.
He inhaled slowly.
Then—
“You’re right.”
That was it.
No excuses.
No “but.”
Just that.
And somehow, that hurt more than anything else.
Your face twisted slightly, frustration and hurt colliding all over again. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
“What else is there?” he asked quietly.
You stared at him, stunned.
“I fucked it up,” he went on, voice low, steady in a way that didn’t try to run from anything. “Everything you said— that’s exactly what I did.”
Your chest tightened.
“I wasn’t there,” he admitted. “I chose shit that didn’t matter over you. I made you feel like you had to compete for me.”
A small pause.
His jaw tightened slightly.
“…You shouldn’t have had to do that.”
Silence filled the room again.
You stood there, breathing uneven, surrounded by the mess on the floor, your thoughts loud and tangled and hurting.
And he just sat there.
Looking at you like—
Like he wasn’t going to fight you on any of it.
Like he knew he’d already lost.
That… took the air out of you.
Not all at once.
But enough.
Your anger didn’t disappear, it was still there, buzzing under your skin, sharp and alive, but it didn’t have anything to push against anymore.
No fight.
No denial.
No excuses.
Just him… sitting there, taking it.
And somehow that felt worse than if he’d yelled back.
You let out a shaky breath, running both hands through your hair, turning away from him for a second like you needed space, even though the apartment was too small for that to mean anything.
“…You don’t get to just agree with me like that,” you muttered.
Behind you, his voice came out quieter.
“I’m not agreeing to make it easier.”
You scoffed weakly. “Feels like it.”
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s just true.”
That word again.
True.
You closed your eyes for a second, jaw tightening, then turned back to him.
He hadn’t moved.
Still sitting there the same way, elbows on his knees now, hands loosely clasped, looking up at you, not challenging, not pleading.
Just… there.
Waiting.
“I wanted you to fight for us,” you said suddenly.
The words came out softer.
Raw.
Like they’d been sitting in your chest for too long.
His expression shifted slightly at that.
“I did,” he said.
You shook your head immediately. “No. Not like that. Not half-assed, not when it was already falling apart. I mean actually fight.”
Your voice wavered.
“I wanted you to look at me and realize you were about to lose me and do something about it.”
Silence.
His gaze dropped to the floor for a second.
“…I know,” he said.
Your chest tightened again.
“I kept waiting,” you went on, your voice quieter now, but heavier. “I kept thinking, ‘okay, this is the part where he wakes up. This is the part where he comes back to me.’”
A small, broken breath left you.
“And you didn’t.”
That hung there.
Heavy.
Final.
He nodded slightly, almost to himself.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I didn’t.”
No excuses.
Again.
You stared at him, searching for something anything that would make this easier to process.
But all you found was that same quiet acceptance.
And something else underneath it.
Regret.
Real, ugly regret.
“I thought about it,” he said after a moment, voice low, careful. “After you left.”
Your brows pulled together slightly.
“I thought about coming after you. Fixing it. Saying all this shit earlier.” A small pause. “Sober.”
You swallowed.
“…And?” you asked.
His jaw tightened.
“I didn’t think you’d open the door.”
That hit.
Hard.
Your expression faltered for just a second.
“I didn’t think I deserved it,” he added.
Silence.
You looked at him, really looked at the way he sat there, smaller somehow, like everything that used to make him feel untouchable had been stripped away.
“…So you just didn’t try?” you asked quietly.
A beat.
Then—
“Yeah.”
God.
You let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but there was no humor in it.
“That’s so fucking stupid,” you said, shaking your head.
“I know.”
Always that.
But this time—
You didn’t snap at it.
You just stood there, the anger, the hurt, the love, all of it tangled up in your chest so tight it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
The popcorn crunched under your foot when you shifted your weight.
Neither of you looked down.
“…You made the decision for me,” you said finally, voice low. “You didn’t give me a choice.”
His eyes lifted back to yours.
And for the first time—
There was something close to fear there.
“I’m here now,” he said quietly.
You held his gaze.
“Yeah,” you replied.
A pause.
Then, softer—
“And that’s the problem.”
He flinched.
Not dramatically, just enough that you caught it.
Like that landed exactly where it was supposed to.
Silence stretched again, thick and uncomfortable, filling every corner of the room. The only sound was something faint from outside, a car passing, distant voices, life continuing like this moment wasn’t sitting here, heavy and unresolved.
You crossed your arms, more out of instinct than attitude now, like you needed something to hold yourself together.
“You don’t just get to show up now,” you said, quieter but sharper. “You don’t get to disappear for two months and then come back like—” you gestured vaguely at him, “—like I’m still yours.”
His jaw tightened at that.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
That hit a nerve.
You saw it in the way he shifted, the way his fingers flexed slightly like he was holding something back.
“I’m not acting like you’re mine,” he said, voice still controlled, but lower now. “I’m here because I needed to see you.”
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, you keep saying that. Why?”
This time, he didn’t answer immediately.
He looked at you, really looked, like he was trying to figure out how much truth you could take without walking away.
“…Because I started forgetting things,” he said finally.
Your brows pulled together.
“What?”
“Not like—” he shook his head slightly, frustrated with himself. “Not literally. Just… small shit. The way you sound in the morning. The way you look at me when you’re about to say something sarcastic. The way you—”
He cut himself off, exhaling through his nose.
“And I didn’t like that,” he finished, quieter.
Something in your chest twisted.
“I didn’t want you to become… something I used to have.”
The words hung there.
Too honest.
Too late.
You swallowed, your throat suddenly tight.
“So what?” you said, trying to hold onto your edge. “You came here to refresh your memory? That’s it?”
“No.”
That came faster.
Stronger.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees again, eyes locked onto yours now with something more grounded, more present.
“I came because I realized I didn’t just lose you,” he said. “I let you go.”
Your breath caught, just for a second.
“And I needed to see if that was… permanent.”
There it was.
The real question.
Not why he came.
But what you were going to do with it.
Your expression hardened again, but it wasn’t as steady as before.
“You don’t get to ask me that like it’s a yes or no question,” you said. “It’s not that simple.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” you shot back. “Because it feels like you think you can just walk back in here, look at me like that, say a couple of pretty, sad things, and suddenly everything’s—” you stopped yourself, shaking your head. “—fixable.”
“I don’t think that,” he said quietly.
“Then what do you think?”
A pause.
He sat back slightly this time, dragging a hand over his face before letting it fall.
“I think I fucked up something good,” he said. “And I don’t know if I can fix it.”
Your chest tightened again.
“But I’m here anyway,” he added. “Because not trying feels worse now than it did back then.”
That—
That almost made you laugh again.
Almost.
“Convenient,” you muttered.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
No defense.
No pride.
Just—
Acceptance.
And it was so frustrating.
You turned away again, pressing your lips together, blinking hard like you were trying to keep everything from spilling over in the wrong way.
“…You always do that,” you said under your breath.
“Do what?”
“Make it hard to hate you.”
That slipped out before you could stop it.
And the second it did—
You wished it hadn’t.
Because now he knew.
He didn’t smile.
Didn’t move.
But something in his expression softened in a way that made your stomach twist.
“I’m not trying to,” he said.
“I know,” you whispered.
That was the problem.
Another long pause.
Then, after a moment, you let your arms drop to your sides, shoulders slumping just slightly.
“…I missed you,” you admitted.
It came out quiet.
Barely there.
Like saying it too loud would make it more real than you were ready for.
He didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t rush it.
Just listened.
“I was so fucking mad at you,” you continued, voice wavering now. “But I still—” you exhaled shakily, looking down for a second. “—I still caught myself reaching for my phone. Or thinking about telling you something. Or—”
You cut yourself off, shaking your head.
“Stupid shit.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You looked back at him.
He meant it.
Of course he did.
That just made it worse.
“…I don’t know what to do with you,” you said honestly.
And for the first time—
He didn’t have an answer.
He just nodded, slow, understanding.
“Yeah,” he murmured.
Another beat.
Then, softer—
“You don’t have to decide right now.”
You studied him for a second, like you were trying to figure out if that was real or just another thing he was saying to keep you from pushing him out the door.
“…And if I decide I don’t want this anymore?” you asked.
His jaw tightened again.
There it was.
That flicker of something heavier.
But he didn’t look away.
“Then I leave,” he said.
Simple.
Direct.
It hurt more than anything else he’d said.
Because this time—
It wasn’t avoidance.
It was respect.
And somehow, that made your chest ache even more.
You nodded slowly, like you were accepting that… even if you didn’t like it.
U.S. Naval Academy’s 65th Superintendent Vice Adm.Yvette Davids, and Col. James McDonough, Commandant of Midshipmen, congratulates Midshipman 4th Class Ben Leisegang, 20 years old, of Rancho Santa Margarita, California, after placing the midshipman cover atop the Herndon monument. USNA freshmen, or plebes, climb the Herndon Monument, a tradition symbolizing the successful completion of the midshipmen’s freshman year. The class of 2027 completed the climb in 2 hours, 19 minutes and 11 seconds.
Pics U.S. Navy/Mass Communication Specialist 2nd Class Sarah M. Thielen
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Many teachers get very upset and angry when I speak of schools being in the jail business. They say, as I would once have said myself, that they personally are not in the jail business. They don't feel like jailers, and they are not running a jail. Perhaps not. But the facts remains that if their students did not go to school, and within that school to their class and even their desk or seat - if they did not do that they would go to jail. This, as Herndon and Dennison point out, is what compulsory school attendance laws mean. They do not mean that society says to young people, we would like you to please go to school. Society says, if you don't go to school, we are going to put you in jail - a real jail with bars in it. For most children, school is the better choice. Most, not all - The New York Times once told about some boys in South Carolina who, offered by a judge a choice of going back to school or going to jail, unhesitatingly chose jail. But these are still exceptions, still a minority, though a rapidly growing one.
Freedom and Beyond by John Holt
Chapter 12: Schools Against Themselves
