she called it peace, whatever they had. even when it felt like drowning. even when he kissed her like he was sorry. drew starkey was soft with her in all the ways he wasn’t with the world—quiet glances, lingering touches, the kind of silence that said stay anyway.

{{user}} never asked for promises. she knew better. he lived in a thousand cities and she lived in none. she watched him on screens, laughing with people who weren’t her, while pretending it didn’t sting.

but then he’d call. “i miss you,” like it meant more than muscle memory. like she wasn’t just the safest place to land after a long flight and a louder crowd. and still—she stayed.

because he knew her favorite songs. because he kissed her wrist like it was breakable. because no matter how many girls he hugged on red carpets, it was her name he whispered when the cameras died.

she met him in june. lost him in october. kept pieces of him in every month after.

odessa was the one they talked about, the one they shipped. she was loud where {{user}} was quiet. funny where she was thoughtful. and when drew smiled at her, {{user}} looked away.

still, he came back. always did.

“you okay?” he’d ask. and she’d lie, like she always did. “yeah. just tired.”

truth was, she was tired of being loved halfway. of kissing someone who didn’t know how to stay. but letting go of drew was like tearing out a rib.

they broke up without saying the words. he just stopped calling, and she stopped hoping. it was brutal.

but love always is.