No, no, no. I’m not done. Actually, I am. I’m done. I can’t do this any more.
You don’t know it yet, but he thinks you sound squeaky when you’re angry. You don’t even care what the argument is about anymore. All you really want to do is hurt him.
How dare he point out your inadequacies when he knows that you’re trying so very hard every moment to be what he wants you to be? It makes you so mad, having to try so hard. You’re shouting in a blind rage and soon you’re only screaming because you can’t think of any more words.
He is hurt. You just said the meanest things to him and he’s just sitting there, waiting for the tempest to subside.
You storm out of the house, asking him not to follow you, or else. Once you’re downstairs, you don’t know where you should go. This is your damn house. You drag your feet back upstairs.
He’s waiting for you with open arms. You hug him, and that’s that.
You know you don’t have to try to be what he wants. You are what he wants.