Beside me | ONESHOTs

Warning:

themes of emotional distress, toxic relationships, references to non-consensual physical intimacy

When you call someone an asshole, it can mean many things. Is it the asshole who bullies you for no reason, simply because you are who you are? Or the kind who cheats on you? Or maybe it's a close friend, where "asshole" is used affectionately. Words can twist themselves into so many different shapes, depending on the person and the moment.

It's interesting to me, though, when people call me an asshole – when, anatomically speaking, an asshole is part of the human body. The part they've… well, let's just say I was intimately involved with. Maybe "prick" would suit me better, or "dick." Whatever fits, I guess.

I know I'm being silly, but it's better to think about pointless things than to stand here and absorb someone else's anger. I can't even figure out what I've done wrong. Sure, I beat up a scumbag who was harassing my lover – but that was just self-defense, right? Protecting what's mine. I might have anger issues, but I'd never hurt the person I love. My lovers are everything to me; I'd give them every part of myself. And yet, somehow, it always ends the same way – in breakups and in shouting matches.

"Are you a psycho?! How could you do that?" Hayley screamed, his dyed pink hair a frazzled mess, his eyes wet with unshed tears. His entire body trembled, caught between fear and fury.

I stepped forward to comfort him, but he stumbled back, arms up in defense, as though I'd lunge at him.

"Don't come any closer! Stop right there, bastard!" he yelled.

I raised my hands in surrender. "Fine. I'm not going," I said, keeping my tone casual, even though I was baffled by his reaction. Raising my brows, I asked, "So? What have I done to make you act like this, Hayley?"

His eyes widened, a mix of disbelief and disgust. "Are you serious? Are you actually this stupid, Nowa?"

I tilted my head, hands slowly lowering. "Guess I am. So, why don't you spell it out for me?"

"Is it normal for you to make everything so physical? Do you think it's okay to fuck someone like an animal, without any regard for their body or feelings?" He choked on a sob, stepping back even further. "I thought you were kind, that I was safe with you, but…" He trailed off, his voice breaking as tears ran down his cheeks. "But I was wrong."

He looked so desperate, so helpless. I wanted to hold him, kiss him, promise I'd make things right. But the fear in his eyes stopped me. This wasn't the first time something like this had happened. Each person I'd tried to love had eventually turned on me, like a sick cycle. And here I was again, facing the end, with the same accusations, the same words.

"You're a psychopath! You don't even understand basic human emotions!" he whispered, his voice cracking as he spiraled toward a breaking point. I could see it coming – he'd either faint, flee, or lash out. They all went through the same phases.

I stayed silent, uncertain. I understood emotions… just maybe not the way they did.

"What did I do wrong?" I asked again, quieter this time. I'd heard their complaints before: too aggressive during sex, too insensitive when they were feeling low, too possessive. Just an animal, fixated on the physical.

But I tried. I honestly tried to change, to be gentler, to respect their moods, to read between the lines. I listened to their every small request, paid for dates, bought gifts, did everything they asked for… in my own way. Was it wrong? Was I wrong? Was I really that much of an asshole?

Maybe I should stop looking for love. I was lonely, sure, but maybe I just didn't have the right to love. Every time, I ended up hurting the people I cared about.

"You're an obsessive sociopath! Who the hell keeps pushing when someone says no?"

Had that really happened? I couldn't remember.

"Don't ever call me again. Go to hell, asshole! I hope you suffer – maybe then you'll finally realize what kind of psycho you are!" Hayley's voice was a jagged scream, echoing in the room as he stormed out. The door slammed shut, leaving me alone in the dark apartment. Alone. Again.

Should I feel sorry? For him? For myself?

Maybe.

But it had happened so many times that I was numb to the pain.

My first relationship was a decade ago. I was an immature teenager who didn't understand a thing about love. My parents were both BDSM porn stars (they never told me, but I found out through a friend who somehow got their hands on one of their films). That left me kind of scarred when it came to sex. I thought love was supposed to be painful and unpleasant.

Then I met Dylon. He was two years older, notorious in school for his hookups, though my sixteen-year-old self was too naïve to pay attention to rumors. Dylon was my first – he seduced me, made me feel wanted. I was mesmerized. Losing my virginity to him wasn't terrifying or unpleasant, like I'd feared. It was satisfying, almost magical.

But then, I found out he was sleeping with others. That broke me.

I stayed alone for a long time, until college, where I met someone who made me feel safe again. He was honest, funny, gentle – everything I needed. We started dating, but by then, my insecurities had twisted me up inside. My paranoia and jealousy, the lingering shadows of Dylon, made me cling too tight. I isolated him, became possessive, couldn't hold back my aggressive nature. I couldn't be tender. It was like I didn't even know how.

Eventually, it broke him. One night, during one of our heated moments, he took a lamp and hit me, freeing himself from my grip. He struck me again, knocking me out cold, and then he was gone. I never heard from him again.

After that, I was desperate. Desperate to fill the void, to convince myself I wasn't the monster he saw in me.

My third relationship barely even happened. He ended things after a few dates, long before we got intimate. Said we were incompatible. No drama, just a clean break. I told myself that was a good thing.

Then came Hayley, my fourth. He'd seemed different. Patient. Kind. But it had ended in screams, too.

Looking back, I had no right to be with any of them. Maybe it's true: I really am a big-ass jerk. Rationalizing my actions doesn't erase the pain I caused.

I've hurt people.

Broken them.

Maybe it's finally time to give up on love. I'm thankful to Hayley, in a twisted way. He helped me see the truth. My first love scarred me. My second broke because of me. My third was just a patch over a wound. And the fourth – well, he was the final acknowledgment of my inability to make anyone happy.

How could someone like me, with all this baggage, ever bring joy to another person? I lost the ability to feel happiness a long time ago.

So now, Nowa, it's time to clean yourself up. Where should I start?

I wandered into the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee, the warmth of a bitter comfort. I needed to calm down, find my bearings, figure out how to kill this hunger for love.

Dylon. Yes, maybe I should start with him. My first love, the one who planted the first seed of doubt in me. And my parents – I haven't spoken to them in years. And Rafael, my childhood friend. They were all at the core of this mess, each one leaving their own scar.

Maybe finding them could be a way of letting go.

I set down the coffee cup and looked around the empty apartment, a mirror of my life – a series of relationships that always ended in failure. The silence hung heavy, pressing down on me.

In the stillness, memories surfaced: my parents' voices, muffled behind closed doors, arguing about things I was too young to understand. Dylon's laughter, too loud and too charming, a deceptive mask. The pleading look in my second lover's eyes, his quiet voice asking me to stop. The emptiness of the third goodbye, Hayley's last shout.

What if I reached out to them – all of them? Would they want to talk to me, or would they hang up the second they recognized my voice?

I had nothing to lose. Maybe closure was the only answer, the only way to finally make peace with myself.

I poured another cup of coffee, realizing that I'd been holding my breath. In the heavy silence of the room, I made a list of names. It was time to confront the people who had shaped me, for better or for worse.

Tomorrow, I'd start with Rafael. Then, I'd find Dylon and my parents. And maybe, just maybe, I'd finally understand what went wrong – if it was them, or if it was just me.