The first real fight was in December.

I should've seen it coming. Everyone knows the honeymoon period is temporary—even me. I didn't need a string of past relationships to work that out. But I guess there was still that hopeful, naïve part of me that floated the idea that we were different. That we were so happy and content and easygoing there was nothing that could shake us.

Like I said, it was naïve.

It didn't take a genius to notice that Josh was more extroverted than me. But so far we'd managed to strike a balance—one that worked so well it got me thinking maybe I'd made a breakthrough. If only I'd sought out more confident guys instead of quiet ones I might've had more luck in previous endeavors. Any time Josh headed out, he asked if I wanted to go with him. Sometimes I did, tagging along to parties or joining him when he hung out with people from the volunteer group. I made a lot of extra friends that way, actually, because he always made the effort to introduce and include me. But sometimes I didn't feel like it, and that was okay too. He never got mad at me for turning the offer down.

Usually.

This time, it was like the expectation had changed, and no one had thought to tell me.

When he showed up at my dorm on the last Friday of the semester, all dressed up in his best jeans and new cologne, there was already a layer of impatience in the air. I later realized this was the effect of more than a few beers, which he'd started on before arriving.

"Morg, change of plans," was the first thing he said when I pulled open the door. "We're going out."

Either he didn't notice or didn't care about what I was wearing: a bobbly pair of leggings, thick socks, and one of his hoodies that I'd acquired a few weeks ago. When he'd given it to me, I'd acted like it wasn't a big deal—but inside I'd been secretly thrilled. He didn't know how attached to it I'd become.

"What?" I said, confused.

I stepped aside to let him in the room, but my question still hung in the air.

"We're going out," he repeated, like this gave me any more context. "One of Dean's friends is in Zeta Beta Xi, and they're throwing this legendary end-of-semester party. They've kitted the house out with so much awesome stuff. They've got kegs, a hot tub, and I'm pretty sure I heard a rumor they were going to turn the living room into a giant ball pit. I have no idea whether that's going to work, but I sure as hell want to find out."

I was still confused—mostly about why he was talking about this like such a certainty, despite the fact that his parties were fast losing their appeal and I'd passed on the last three he'd gone to. Despite the fact this was specifically a frat party he was talking about, and after everything I'd told him about Caleb, he really should've known his audience better.

When his voice trailed off, I thought it might have hit him. But I hoped for too much. "Well, come on," he snapped. "Hadn't you better get ready?"

In that moment, I found my voice. "Why?"

"Were you not listening to what I just said?" he asked. "Kegs, hot tub, ball pit. Come on, Morgan, you've got to admit this isn't one to miss. It'll be fun."

I folded my arms, immediately on the defence. "Do I get a say in this?"

The way he looked at me, it was like I was speaking a foreign language. "Well, yeah, I'm not going to literally drag you. But I thought you'd want to go. It's been ages since we went out together and, you know, did something spontaneous and exciting. Why not tonight?"

It was such a careless, off-handed comment—and yet the underlying malice shone through as clear as day. "I'm sorry," I said, standing up a little straighter. "I didn't know I wasn't being spontaneous and exciting enough for you already."

His face changed right away. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Isn't it?" My heart was pounding a little, the voice in my head telling me to back down before the disagreement turned into something I'd regret. "Because that's exactly what it sounded like."

"Morgan, I'm not trying to start something."

"Neither am I," I said, annoyed by the implication. "But I don't think it's fair for you to come barging in here, telling me to drop everything so I can come with you to some random party with a bunch of people I don't know."

"It's not dropping everything. You weren't exactly doing much."

"And how do you know?"

"Well," he said, gesturing vaguely, "because on a Friday night, you never are."

That was it: as soon as the words were out in the open, it was obvious he'd gone too far. It hit us both like a slap in the face. And there was definitely no coming back.

I kept my voice quiet, steady. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He only had two options: desperately backtrack or double down on his point. I wasn't expecting him to choose the latter. "Well, it's true, isn't it?" he said. "That's not supposed to be an insult—it's a fact. Most Friday nights, you do stay home. Are you going to stand here and tell me that's not true?"

"No. I'm just saying it would be nice to have a choice in the matter. For you not to storm in here, tell me what we're doing and where we're going, and expect me to go along with it like I'm not capable of thinking for myself."

"So, let me guess," he said. "You don't want to go. Yet another night you want to turn down hanging out with your boyfriend because you'd rather sit in your dorm room alone."

He'd never made me angry before, but right now, I was seeing red. I couldn't believe he was talking to me like this. Only earlier we'd been texting each other, flirting and joking around without a care in the world, and yet here we were. Things had flipped faster than I could comprehend.

"You're being totally unfair."

"Am I?" he asked. "I think it's reasonable to want to spend time with my girlfriend once in a while."

"We do spend time together," I pointed out. "I've seen you pretty much every day this week."

"Yeah, at my apartment, or cooped up in this tiny room. Occasionally at lunch or dinner, if our schedules match up. But it's hardly to do anything exciting, is it? When was the last time we went out on a real date?"

I gave him a flat look. "You can't be suggesting that a frat party counts as a date."

"It's something different, though, isn't it?" he said, holding his hands up. "A break from the everyday. I don't think I'm an awful person for wanting a change once in a while."

"And I'm not an awful person for having preferences, Josh," I said. "In case you hadn't noticed, it's just who I am. I'm not the kind of person who makes themselves the center of attention. I'm not the life of the party. In fact, most of the time I turn down the offer, it's because I'm scared of going and everyone resenting me being there because I'm not fun enough. And that's just me. I don't know what you thought you were signing up for when you asked me out, but I'm pretty sure I never led you to believe I was some kind of social butterfly. So if that's what you're looking for, then let's call it quits now."

The final statement caught us both off guard—though Josh more than me, since I'd at least had a second's warning while the words were rolling off my tongue. If I hadn't been caught up in the heat of the moment, they probably wouldn't have made it out into the open. But with accusations flying back and forth, the only way I could keep up was by bursting out with the first thing that came to mind. It was too late to take it back now.

He looked me dead in the eye. "Is that what you want?"

A direct question, aimed straight through the heart, with no room to wriggle away. I guess that was his intention.

But I didn't know the right answer.

"I don't know," I said, because hedging my bets seemed like the safest option. However, as I watched his expression change, I realized it was probably the worst thing I could've said.

He looked away from me altogether, ducking his head and zipping up his jacket. "I'm going to the party," he said flatly. Then, he brushed past me, with almost no acknowledgement at all. "You do whatever you want. I'll see you later."

"Wait, Josh," I said. "I—"

But my sentence was cut off by the sound of the heavy, fire-regulation door slamming behind him. Footsteps echoed down the hallway, fading into the distance, and when I heard the ding of the elevator my chance disappeared altogether.

I wasn't sure whether I should've gone after him; all I knew was there was at least one clear voice in my head telling me not to. Telling me that whatever this was couldn't be fixed here and now, and that we both needed time to cool off and figure things out.

Still, standing there alone, I didn't feel angry or frustrated.

In reality, I felt more like I wanted to burst into tears.

I knew that was an overreaction, and I managed to hold back the floodgates despite my bottom lip quivering pathetically. I needed some perspective. For one thing, this was mine and Josh's first argument—and three months down the line that was a pretty good run. For another, I wasn't sure I'd actually done anything wrong.

Because Josh had marched in here with beer on his breath and his mind already made up. He'd had a commandeering attitude from the get-go, and it was unreasonable to expect me to undergo a personality transplant and happily accompany him to a party I knew would be my personal hell, silently and without complaint.

Maybe I'd have considered it if he asked nicely. But instead he approached the situation in the worst way possible—was I really to blame when that put my back up?

I knew all these things, and reassured myself of them in the seconds and minutes that followed the slam of the door. I knew I wasn't in the wrong, and I wouldn't stoop low enough to go back and grovel with an apology he didn't deserve.

But still... after three months of being inseparable, it felt like a terrible mistake to leave things this way.

Hence the tear, which I couldn't stop from sliding down my cheek.

I attempted to distract myself, but that was easier said than done. My eyes kept wandering back to my phone regardless of whatever else I tried to focus on. Checking for the flash of the screen and subtle vibration to tell me a new message had come through. I knew it was pointless. By now, Josh would be on his way to the party, too far gone to change his mind and come back. And once there, he would be too busy—not to mention drunk—to message anything, let alone an apology. Part of me was tempted to snatch up the phone myself and make the first move, but it would've been even more humiliating to send the message and get left on read.

So I stayed quiet, wallowing in everything, feeling more like crying by the minute.

Until I heard Hanna's keys in the door.

It was a couple of hours later: long enough for me to have taken up residence on my bed, hugging a pillow to my chest and staring into space. Though I hadn't been crying, it was still pathetic enough for me not to want Hanna to see. So I jolted upright and tried to fix my hair—but I should've known it would be no use against her razor-sharp intuition.

There was no greeting. Just an abrupt stop in the doorway and a gaze that zoned in on me. "What's wrong?"

Looking at her, I could tell she was at the tail end of a long afternoon-slash-evening stint in the library. There was the washed-out sweatshirt, the barely-there ponytail, the laptop case she was cradling to her chest. And the bags under her eyes, which somehow worked with the on-the-grind look in a way I could never pull off.

"Nothing," I said quickly, even though it was an embarrassingly blatant lie.

She let the door close behind her, then set the laptop down and shrugged off her backpack. All while keeping her eyes on me, like I was a wild animal on whom she couldn't turn her back. "Let's try that again, and this time around, we'll stop pretending I don't have functioning eyes." She stepped closer. "What's going on?"

Left with no choice, I looked her in the eye. And it only took a second to melt my resolve to hold it together. There was no pretending around Hanna.

I took a deep, shaky inhale. At the same time, a single tear breached my lower eyelid and rolled down my cheek.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." She leaned forward and swiped at it with her thumb, removing all evidence of the sadness, like a magic trick. "You're freaking me out, Morg. Tell me what's going on—and whose balls I need to chop off."

I shook my head. "Nobody's."

"Literally everything about this begs to differ," she said. "What's going on? Is it Josh?"

The mention of his name came close to setting me off again, but another deep inhale seemed to do the trick. I really didn't want to appear this pathetic—especially over something I knew was, in the grand scheme of things, petty and insignificant—but it felt like a milestone for all the wrong reasons. Maybe slamming doors and lashing tongues would be something I'd grow accustomed to in the future. Right now, though, it felt new and scary and permanent.

I nodded. "He came over here, and... well, I guess we had our first fight."

Hanna's expression opened up in understanding. "Oh. What about?"

"Me not going to a party," I said. "But... I don't know. It also felt like more than that."

"In what way?"

"It just seemed so... personal, I guess. Up until now, he's been okay with it. That I don't always want to go with him, I mean. You of all people know that's not my thing. I thought we had the balance right, that it didn't matter if we were different people... but tonight it felt like something changed."

"How so?"

"He marched in here and told me we were going out," I said. "Like it was an order, not a question. He's never acted like that before—not even close. It was completely out of the blue. And when I didn't go along with it, he got really pissed."

Hanna's brows had sunk into a deep frown. "What the hell?"

"Yeah," I said. "That was my reaction, too."

"So what did he say?"

"He said some things, in the heat of the moment..." I said, my voice wandering astray as it approached more difficult territory. "I don't know. They weren't particularly nice. Something about me wanting to stay in my room all the time, that we don't ever do anything spontaneous or exciting..."

"What an absolute fucking dickwad."

From Hanna, I shouldn't have expected anything less.

"Seriously, though," she continued, meeting my gaze. "How dare he! He shouldn't make you feel like that. You're your own person, and there's nothing wrong with not liking the things he likes, and vice versa."

"Well, yeah, that's what I thought."

"God, it literally proves all guys are the same," she said, shaking her head. "I mean, he didn't seem like the type when I met him, and I thought maybe you guys were onto something different. But clearly not. They're literally the exact same. Act all nice at the beginning, like they adore all the things about you that make you unique... and then they get a sense of security and start thinking they actually would like to make a few tweaks. Typical."

She had a point, but the words were rushing out of her so fast I was almost tripping over them. I wanted support, not to mention her acknowledgement that I was in the right and shouldn't be going back groveling—but this went a little too far.

"Well," I found myself saying, "that's not really what Josh is like."

Hanna frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Yeah, he acted like a douche tonight," I said, "but it's the first time anything like this has happened."

"It's a red flag, though, don't you think?" Hanna looked me dead in the eye. "What he said tonight was a pretty personal attack. Is that the kind of guy you want to be with?"

It was her fierce insistence, coming at me with unexpected force, that caused me to start shrinking away. The conversation had taken a sharp turn; I was no longer sure whether I wanted to continue down this road. When I'd told her what was wrong, I'd been seeking quiet reassurance: a figurative pat on the back for standing my ground, plus some light-touch advice on how to patch things up quickly and painlessly.

One argument didn't spell the end of a relationship—but the way Hanna was talking, it was like it was already over.

"Hanna..." I said gingerly. "I think you're reading too much into this. It was just a disagreement, not some huge fight—"

"Then why did you look so upset when I walked in?"

"It caught me by surprise. I wasn't expecting an argument, and it was kind of overwhelming."

"And what he said hurt you," she added. "You said it yourself: it seemed personal."

"I know. But I also said we were both caught up in the heat of the moment. We both said things we shouldn't have."

If that's what you're looking for, then let's call it quits now.

Hanna's eyes didn't leave me, searching and studying, but her long exhale was one of defeat. Whatever outcome she'd wanted for this conversation, it didn't seem like she'd gotten it.

"Only you know what went on, Morgan," she said calmly. "Only you know how it made you feel. If it doesn't feel like a big deal, then okay, don't give him a hard time. But please don't let him get away with making you feel even the tiniest bit smaller."

There was wisdom in every word; I had no choice but to nod along with her. I knew I was lucky to have Hanna. She always told me like it was, found the words I needed to hear. Even if sometimes it wasn't what I wanted to hear.

But there was something priceless in someone that would always, always tell you the truth.

"I won't," I told her, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "I promise."

By then, the tears had dried up; there was no more crying to be done. I couldn't work out whether I felt better or not. Still, it was easier to smile when Hanna moved away from my bed and snatched up her washbag, telling me she was getting ready for bed. She padded off to the communal bathroom and there was no further conversation when she got back. Once she'd climbed into bed and turned off her lamp, I felt even more alone in the darkness.

As the minutes ticked by, I found myself wondering what Josh was doing. Getting drunker by the second, probably, and diving into a makeshift living-room ball pit—if such a thing even existed. I hadn't put my phone on silent, just in case. I didn't want the noise to wake Hanna, but if there was any hint of vibration under my pillow, the phone would be in my palm like a shot.

In the end, I fell asleep before the message came through. But when it did, I jolted upright like I'd been electrocuted.

I hadn't even opened the first one when the string of messages started to arrive.

JOSH: I'm sorfy

JOSH: Sifthy

JOSH: SORRY

JOSH: i'm a douchebG

JOSH: Plz forgivE me

JOSH: lets not figit again

JOSH: i loVE you

JOSH: XxxxXxxX x

As Hanna snored softly on the other side of the room, my breath of relief went unheard. I tapped out a single reply, turned silent mode back on and set my phone down in its usual place on my bedside table.

MORGAN: Get home safe. I love you.

Then, I went to sleep.

----------------------

Here we are! A long one for you today, and let's just say the cracks in Morgan and Josh's relationship are beginning to show...

You may have seen it on my social media already (shameless plug: that's leigh_ansell on Twitter and Instagram if you're not already following me), but I have FINALLY FINISHED THIS MANUSCRIPT!! Obviously we still have a way to go on the Wattpad chapters, but they're all lined up and let me just say, I'm VERY excited for what's in store. Hope you guys are too.

As always, drop a comment below to let me know what you thought. I love reading and replying to them!

Until next time...

- Leigh