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“You always do this!” Eugene shouted, voice sharp. “You come in here like you own the place, shouting, laughing, leaving your.. your stuff everywhere, and you think I’m supposed to just.. deal with it!? Let you do it?”
“I’m not trying to—” Pugsley began, but Eugene’s voice overpowered over his.
“Not trying? Not trying!? You think that matters? You are so exhausting! You’re loud, you’re weird, you’re—” Eugene paused, chest heaving, “you’re everything I hate!”
Pugsley’s shoulders slumped slightly. “I.. I didn’t ask to bother you.” he whispered, voice small, almost unheard by the storm outside.
“You do!” Eugene shot back. “Every day! Every shout, every time you leave your things, I notice it, and I hate how you keep doing that shit! I hate it, Pugsley. I hate you! I hate that I notice at all!”
Pugsley’s lips quivered. “I..—I just wanted to be your friend—”
“Your friend?” Eugene barked. “You think being my friend means I have to tolerate all of this? All of you? You have no idea how unbearable it is!”
The room fell silent for a moment, heavy with the tension of words thrown too hard, voices echoing against the walls. Eugene’s chest rose and fell fast—adrenaline and anger twisted together in a knot.
Pugsley rubbed at his eyes, attempting to keep his voice steady. “I.. maybe I-I shouldn’t even—”
“Yes! Maybe you shouldn’t!” Eugene shouted, voice cracking. Then, as if the energy of his own fury had finally run out, he sank onto the edge of the bed, head in his hands.
His breathing was uneven, ragged. The words had been said, the venom from his words gone, and suddenly the room felt impossibly quiet and too hot.
Pugsley leaned against the desk, not making a move to speak—still trembling but too exhausted to argue further. Neither of them moved for several long moments. The storm outside softened into a drizzle, pattering gently against the windows.
Finally, Eugene muttered, almost to himself, “I—I don’t even know why I.. why I care so much.” He looked up at Pugsley, eyes tired, raw, and something lit in them—something he couldn’t name. Maybe, maybe he cared more than he’d admit, maybe in some stupid, frustrating way he didn’t want to care at all.
Pugsley’s lips twitched, like he was about to speak, then he just nodded slightly and retreated to the corner of the room. Neither spoke again that night.
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Morning light crept through the rain-streaked windows. Eugene stirred, cautious, expecting another day of boiling hot tension, maybe even something that might be similar to making up. For the first time since last night, he felt a flicker of hope, a small part of him that hoped, that perhaps the fight hadn’t destroyed everything.
Pugsley was already up, quietly packing a small bag on the desk, a few suitcases on the floor. Eugene blinked, confused. “You're, *cough*—you’re awake?” he asked cautiously.
Pugsley didn’t look up. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m leaving.”
Eugene froze. “Leaving? You mean like.. you’re.. going somewhere? Where to?”
“A new school. I’m transferring,” Pugsley said, voice flat, matter-of-fact. “I.. I have to. family things. Stuff like that, you know?”
The hope Eugene had felt just hours ago collapsed like a house of cards. His hands shook, heart pounding painfully in his chest. He wanted to shout, to beg, to do something, but nothing came.
“You're..—you’re like serious? About leaving?” His voice was hoarse, breaking, almost a whisper.
“Yes,” Pugsley said quietly, still not meeting his eyes. “I can't do anything about it. I tried. I really did. But I can’t. My parents said I can't stay here.”
He lifted his bag—dragging his suitcases along with him—he paused at doorway for merely a moment.
"I'm sorry." He whispered, without giving him a glance—just leaving.
Eugene sank to the floor, back against the corner of the bed, chest tight, staring at the doorway that had swallowed the boy he’d.. maybe cared about more than he wanted to admit. The storm outside had already passed, leaving a pale, foggy morning in its wake, but inside Eugene—the storm didn't stop, continuing and relentless.
There was no comfort. No apology. No making up like he had thought would might've happened.
Only regret and guilt.
Sometimes people can just leave without ever fixing things.
Some people can just leave even without arguments.
The thing they have in common is that, nothing could bring them back—not even that small part of you, hoping—could.