#pandaicouldneverhateyou

You never really know when it starts — the moment where love becomes addiction, where wanting someone turns into needing them like air you can’t breathe without. Maybe it was the third time he promised it was the last time. Maybe it was the first.

You're lying on his bed in that dingy flat with the posters peeling off the wall, Bristol’s rain hammering at the window. Cook's snoring softly beside you, smelling like sweat and someone else’s perfume. Not yours. Never yours these days.

You should leave. You always say you will. But his arm is draped over your waist, heavy and warm and familiar, like a chain you don’t have the strength to break.

It wasn't just some random girl this time. It was Panda. Your friend. Her eyes blown wide, guilt written all over her face like bad eyeliner when she saw you outside the bathroom.

You didn't cry. Not in front of her. Not in front of him either. You saved it for later, when he found you on the balcony, knees hugged to your chest, mascara bleeding down your cheeks in slow, quiet defeat.

“Baby…” he had said, like that word still meant something. “I fucked up. I’m a twat. But I love you, yeah? I swear, it didn’t mean anything.”

He always says that. It never means anything. You’re the only one who’s supposed to mean something — but if that’s true, why does he keep doing this?

“I just... I can’t stop being a dick sometimes,” he muttered into your hair, clutching you like a drowning man. “But I don’t wanna lose you. You’re it for me.”

And there it was. The line. You’re it for me.

Like you’re the prize at the end of the mess. Like that makes it okay.

You’d told yourself this time was the last time. But then he kissed you like he needed saving, like you were the only good thing he’d ever touched with both hands, and you let him back in.

It’s a week later and you’re at some party — one of those crowded, sweat-slicked flats where music pulses through your bones and everything tastes like vodka and regret. You lose sight of Cook somewhere between the kitchen and the bathroom. You try not to care but deep down there’s that same feeling from last time. That gut sense that tells you he’s doing something that will break your heart one more time.

And then you see him. Lips on some girl’s neck. Hands where they don’t belong. Her laugh high and breathy, his grin cocky and gone.

Your stomach drops. Cold. Heavy.

He sees you before you can look away.

"Oi, babe—wait—" he’s stumbling after you, shoving through bodies like you're the one running. Like you’re the one hiding something. You don’t stop walking. Not until you’re out in the alley, the cold air slicing through your skin. He catches up, grabs your wrist. You pull away. Hard.

“You said—” your voice cracks. You hate that it cracks. “James, you promised me.”

“I know, I know, I’m fucked, alright?” His voice is too loud. Too Cook. “I didn’t mean to—she kissed me, yeah? I pushed her off.” You try not to laugh.

“Is that what it looked like? ‘Cause from where I was standing, you looked pretty into it.”

He looks down. That’s worse. That’s when you know he’s not even going to bother lying right this second.

“I don’t know why I keep doing this,” he says finally. “I don’t wanna lose you.”

“Then stop cheating on me!” You beg him like it’s an impossible petition. You beg him. How pathetic.

“I can’t.” It comes out too fast. Too honest. And for a second, the truth hangs there, sharp and ugly and real.

You flinch. Because that is the first real thing he’s said in a long time.

He looks at you like he’s just realized he’s bleeding and doesn’t know how to stop it. “You make me wanna be better. I’m just not… there yet. But I will be. I swear.”

“How many times are you gonna swear that before I stop believing you?” you whisper because if you speak louder you may cry. 

He doesn’t answer. He just steps forward, wraps his arms around you again like that makes everything okay. Like the warmth of his body can erase the cold of what he's done.

And you let him. God help you, you let him.

Because it’s easier to lie to yourself than to face the truth — that maybe this is all he’ll ever be. And maybe this is all you’ll ever get from him.

A promise from a liar’s mouth. And your heart, breaking all over again.

You don’t leave him the night you see the red lipstick on his trousers. Neither when he received a call from some chik and neither when JJ called you to pick Cook up from a party where he got fucked up. 

You should. You know that. You even stand up like you’re going to. But you don't. Not yet. Instead, you crawl into bed beside him and let him pull you close with those same arms he wraps around strangers in the dark.

Because you're tired. Because it’s easier. Because letting go of Cook feels like peeling off your own skin.

The next morning, you wake up before he does and stare at the ceiling like it holds the answer. The sun’s bleeding through the blinds, and he’s breathing softly, unbothered. Like nothing’s broken.

You don’t cry. You just feel... numb. Like your heart has run out of warnings to give you.

That afternoon, you meet the girls at the park. Emily texts: bring wine and feelings. You bring both.

They’re already laid out on a tattered blanket — Naomi in her sunglasses, Panda, who you finally forgave after she made a whole essay about how bad of a friend she was, chattering about something dumb a guy said to her on the bus, Emily rolling a joint with laser focus. It’s a weird kind of peacefulness.

“Alright, what's up with you?” Naomi says when you finally sit, cracking open a can of cider.

You shrug. Lie. “Just tired.”

Emily gives you a look. “You’ve been tired for months.”

“I’m fine,” you say.

Panda tilts her head. “Is it Cook again?”

You pause too long. They all go quiet. Panda reaches over and gently places a hand on yours. “... you don’t have to protect him with your silence.”

Your throat tightens. And suddenly it’s spilling out — not just last night, but all of it. Every time he disappeared. Every half-arsed apology. Every promise he swore on your skin, only to break hours later. You talk until your voice goes hoarse, and by the end, your hands are shaking.

Emily’s the first to speak. Quiet. Steady. “That’s not love, you know.”

You look at her. “Then what is it?”

“Punishment,” Naomi says bluntly, taking her sunglasses off. Her eyes are piercing. “You keep setting yourself on fire hoping he’ll notice the smoke. But what you don’t realise is that he is already too busy burning”

You laugh. It’s small and bitter. “I keep thinking... maybe if I just hang on a bit longer, he’ll finally get it.”

“He won’t,” Emily says. Not unkindly. Just honestly. “Because he already knows he doesn’t have to. You’re still there, aren’t you?”

That hits you like a bruise.

You look down at the wine in your hand. It’s warm. Forgotten. Like you.

Panda, sweet Panda, leans her head against your shoulder. “You deserve someone who doesn’t make you beg for scraps.”

It’s quiet for a while after that.

You watch a kid fly a kite in the distance. It dives and twirls, crashing to the ground, then rising again like it doesn’t know how to stay down. You feel like that kite.

That night, you pack your things from his room slowly. Not everything. Just the pieces of yourself you know you’ll need: your books, the necklace your mum gave you, the hoodie you actually bought with your own money — not one of his. You leave the rest. Leave behind the memories stitched into the fabric of that little and dirty room . The nights he held you. The nights he didn’t come home.

He comes in while you're zipping your bag.

“Going somewhere?” he asks, sounding amused. Still drunk on whatever high he lives in.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

His smile fades. “Oh come on, not this again.”

You turn and look at him. Really look at him. The messy hair, the cut on his knuckle from a fight you didn’t ask about, the eyes that used to melt you and now just feel like storm clouds.

“I’m done, James.” The name you so loved to say now sting your mouth.

But he laughs. Actually laughs. Like it's a game and you’re just bluffing again. “You’ve said that before.”

“I meant it this time.” You hope.

He walks closer. “You always come back.”

You stand. Slow. Measured. Like if you move too fast, you’ll shatter.

“Because I always hope you'll give me a reason to stay.”

He freezes. You see it in his eyes, his beautiful eyes. 

“I’ve waited for you to change,” you continue, voice shaking now. “I’ve excused everything — every lie, every girl, every morning-after apology — because I thought, maybe this time it’s different. Because I thought loving you meant something.”

His mouth opens. Closes. Nothing comes out.

You step past him. He grabs your arm, too tight. “Don’t walk away.”

You meet his eyes. And for the first time, he actually looks scared. Like you mean it. Like this time, it really is the end.

“Let go of me, Cook.” He flinches at his last name. You weren’t supposed to call him that. He was James for you. 

“Please. Don’t leave.”

You turn, voice shaking but sure. “You didn’t think I ever would. That’s the problem.”

And then you're gone.