"Like some wines our love could neither mature nor travel."
Graham Greene
Prologue
"You stupid asshole! You never listen to me. Maybe if you did, we wouldn't be doing this now!" She shouted, clutching the jacket she was wearing. Her heart was beating wildly, her nostrils flared angrily.
He raked a hand through his hair in frustration, resolve gone. "Oh, fuck you Clary. Fuck you. We're always like this. But I'm the damn dog that comes and says sorry." He wanted to throw the vase that was sitting on the table across the wall. He wanted the shards of glass to shatter. He turned to look at her, biting his tongue. His words hurt. They always did. His weapon were words. Words that packed a punch. She was standing there, her face emotionless but he could tell that she had things to say. There was never a time she didn't. Her hair was cut short, below her ears but in messy tangles. Her freckles were finally displayed, the orange dots dusting her pale face. Her eyes were so intense. The greens mixing with light shades of blue. She was beautiful.
"Who the hell said that? You know what? I'm tired. I'm tired of us fighting." She said, her voice lowering drastically.
"And I'm not?" His fingers were trembling.
She was staring at the ground. "How can you live with yourself? You never visit me. Ever. Not anymore anyway."
His eyebrows knit at the change in topic. It took him some time to form words. He swallowed. "You know what I have to do. I have a job."
He hit a cord at that. Her face flung forward, a scowl plastered on her lips. "I work too! But I come early to see your goddamned face!"
Something struck in his chest and he shut his eyes for a moment. "The hell you do. I fucking missed meetings for you. I do everything I can to see you smile!"
She was shaking her head now, pacing around the apartment floor. "I don't give a shit. I don't. I'm leaving."
He grabbed her arm as she whirled to the door. She stopped, not wanting to see his expression. "Where to?"
"The bar so I can fuck some guys." She replied sarcastically, tone harsh. "To Isabelle. At least she cares."
He let go of her arm as if it stung and watched as she forgot to grab her purse and stomped out of the room, the door following suit. He felt hollow. His fists uncurled slowly. The blood drained from his face. He came to a realization. They were always like this. Fighting. Arguing. Drinking beer to calm their nerves. It never worked. Nothing did. Hunched over, he padded into their bedroom and tugged out his bag from under a cabinet. Inside something was churning. He only heard one voice in his head. His. He gathered piles of his clothes, his cologne, the one she loved, and several of his books. That was it. That was probably all he needed. Scanning the space around him, he remembered what had occurred in the time he spent there. Hugging Clary. Watching as she cried because she failed her exam. Her first time. Telling a story while she slumbered. Everything looked so far away. So unreachable.
He ripped a paper from a random notebook of hers and scribbled something onto it quickly.
I'm not gonna start with cheesy crap. I guess I'll say I'm sorry. That's all. I'm leaving. It's over. Whatever we had, it's clearly gone now. You must have noticed, babe. We weren't gonna last. No one will. I won't end it with an I love you because I truly don't and it would be lying. Stay strong.
Jace Herondale x
Placing the short letter on her pillow, he sucked in a heavy breath and walked away from the place they both called home. But maybe home wasn't a place, he thought as the cold air of New York tore through his thin hoodie. Maybe it was a feeling.
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