"I love you," he said. Simple. No smirk this time.
She grabbed the handle of the suitcase. He didn't stop her. He couldn't. That was the tragedy of him—he would chase the stage, the lights, the next rush, but he would never chase a woman out the door. His pride was a cage they both lived in.
"I'm taking what's mine," she said flatly. "Which, I realized, isn't much." Tyga ft. Chris Brown - For The Road
"You packing light?" Tyga’s voice was low, almost amused. He leaned against the doorframe, gold chains catching the dim light. "Or you taking the whole closet?"
The front door clicked.
"I love you too," she said. "But love isn't enough when you're never really here."
He stepped closer. Too close. His hand reached out, fingers brushing the strap of her suitcase. "You know how this life is. Cameras, clubs, groupies. It don't mean nothing. You're the one I come home to." "I love you," he said
"This isn't working, T," she whispered.
He pushed off the frame and crossed the room in four strides. He smelled like expensive cologne and the faint ghost of a whiskey sour. "You're not even gonna look at me?" She grabbed the handle of the suitcase
But words were cheap. And Tyga’s words were always on credit.
She didn't turn around. She didn't need to. She knew his walk—the lazy, confident shuffle of a man who had never been told "no" and meant it.