Your life used to be peaceful before you let her in. You weren't one to fuck around, really — you'd never been afraid of commitment. Then, you met Vi, who was a friend of a friend, and you clicked. She liked you, wanted you, and you felt the same.

Since then, since you let her get into your bed, since you let her bury her fingers in between your brains and mold it to whatever shape she wanted, it got messy. You knew she wasn't a fuckboy, she was charming, but she wasn't the type. She had you and maybe a few other hook-ups, but still, you weren't there yet.

What she had were enemies, people angry at her because she was good at what she did, so that splashed right on your face. That's what she meant when she started rambling about trust, about getting her life straight, about you handling it, about being there till the end. You thought she was just high.

You had people up your neck, asking you about Vi, trying to lure you in so you'd break her trust, take you to their side — whatever the fuck that meant.

All that while she had you on delivered. Every time: you'd let her in, smoke, drink, fuck, then she'd be gone for weeks. In the meantime, you'd have her "friends" trying to get your attention.

Sometimes, they would get entertained for a while when you were bored out of your mind, but then,

"Did you throw my shit away yet?"

She'd show up at your door, all leather jacket and baggy jeans, hair damp from the rain and a little smile on her lips that was as much as apologetic as it was cocky, because she knew you'd give in to her.

"I know I've been away, but... you know I was just trying to get my papers straight. I needed some time to sort it out."

She had her hands in her pockets, looking at you with her glossy puppy eyes and that nervous stance, shifting on her feet, that made you melt.