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"WILL YOU JUST TALK TO ME?" Neymar begs as he watches me pack my bags, "About what? About how you let some other woman hold my baby? No thanks," I answer him.
I continue to furiously back my bags, "You can't take my son away from me Y/N," Neymar continues, "I'm not. Just following the routine of going home," I sigh as I continue. "Don't you think that the routine is getting old?" he asks.
I look up at him for the first time since last night, "You're asking me that? Don't forget, you're the reason why we have this routine," I shake my head. I hear him exhale loudly, "When will you stop holding that against me? I was immature, I was scared!" he defends.
"You're a thirty-one-year-old man, I don't want to hear it. You did this when you were nineteen, don't talk to me about not being ready! You wanted this! I told you, I fucking told you Neymar. I didn't want to have a baby if you weren't one hundred percent on board and you promised. So don't tell me you weren't ready as if I fucking baby-trapped you or something," I began to raise my voice.
