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"You make me want a cigarette, Janet," said Mark, a puff of smoke leaving his mouth.
          "That's bad for your lungs, y'know," she said, facing away from him.
          "What?"
          "I said, it's bad for your lungs," she said, raising her voice, yet keeping a timid, submissive tone and digging into her arm with her nails.
          "Yeah, well... When you act like this, I need some nicotine. And stop talking like that! You know how terrible it makes me feel? Say it! Whatever you're going to say!" His voice was hushed, broken, and desperate.
          "I'm-," she was interrupted by the sound of him turning around and raising his voice.
          "Don't you dare say you're sorry! You always blame yourself! I can't read your mind so tell me what I did and don't chicken out and say 'It's me, it's me!'" he yelled, grabbing her by the shoulder, forcing her to look at him. He dropped his cigarette and picked her hand up off her arm.
         "Be loud! Stop being silent and hurting yourself like this! You think I don't see it?" he asked, his voice cracking.
          She teared up and pressed her face against his chest.
         "Mark."
         He sighed, wrapping his arms around her shaking body. She was always crying quietly.
         "I'm here, you know? I'll wait," he said