Our relationship was a lot like a basket of dirty laundry. Laundry is a chore that no one likes to do, but it has to be done, or you can't go about your day normally. Most people let their dirty clothing pile up until they have nothing left to wear, and have no choice but to do said chore.

We're a lot like that. We let our problems collect in the proverbial laundry basket of our life, and never think anything of it until they become too big to ignore. Only when the basket is filled to the top, and our closets are empty do we take care of it.

We argue, the emotional strain of said dirty clothing eventually taking a toll on us. It takes awhile for the basket to fill up, but once it does, there is so much that needs to be done.

Despite the constant piling up of metaphorical clothing, inevitable screaming matches and spending nights away from each other, we still managed reconcile.

Wash, dry and repeat.

I'm honestly not sure how much longer I can keep this up. It gets redundant, and I'm getting tired of it. After particularly nasty spats, I catch myself wondering why we're still together. It seems that all we do is fight and make up, fight and make up. A vicious, never-ending cycle.

--

I have to admit, when he stomped out and slammed the door, I felt relieved. I'd been able to let out everything that had been on my mind for the past few weeks in a fight I had, once again, started. I always had a short temper, and it seemed to shorten whenever I was with him.

I don't know what happened to us. We hardly ever fought when we were younger, when we were friends. It seemed that taking a step forward in our relationship put us on a counterproductive setback.

Admittedly, the fight wasn't as bad as it could've been. So even though he stormed out, he came back later that night instead of spending it at Kenny's place. We avoided talking to each other, and spent the evening with a tense atmosphere. It didn't help that our apartment was small, and that we, of course, shared a room.

I didn't tell him to sleep on the couch, and he didn't bother to offer. We went to bed, each on our respective sides, turned away from each other. This whole thing was wrong, it was eating away at us like a bad virus. Neither of us ever dared to bring up the subject of needing space or, God forbid, breaking up.

We were a constant. It was always, "Me & Him" or "Him & Me," and it had always been that way. And despite the arguments and issues that seemed to come at us in a never ending wave, we did love each other.

So, the next day, when he walked into the living room, carrying the basket full of dirty clothes and asked if I was ready to go, I gave him a smile,

"You bet."