drew starkey wasn’t supposed to be permanent. he was supposed to be the mistake i made one summer. a beautiful distraction in a hoodie and rings. but somehow, he stayed. and so did the damage.

we were fire and gasoline — loud, intense, impossible to ignore. we’d scream at each other in parking lots, kiss like the world was ending, and laugh like we hadn’t just threatened to walk away two seconds before. it was always too much or not enough.

“you’re so dramatic,” he’d say, rolling his eyes, hands in his hair like he was tired of me. “you’re so distant,” i’d shoot back, like i wasn’t clinging to the version of him i made up in my head.

it wasn’t love. not really. it was obsession dressed up in promises we never kept. and when we finally broke, it wasn’t clean. it was violent and slow — drawn out over late-night calls and half-drunk texts. “you up?” “just come over. one last time.” “do you still think about me or have you finally moved on?”

i knew i should block him. delete the photos. burn the sweatshirt he left in my closet. but i didn’t. because what if he came back? what if i needed to hear him say my name again, just once, like it still meant something?

every time i thought we were done, something would pull us back. a run-in at a party. a mutual friend saying “he asked about you.” a memory hitting too hard when i’m already two drinks deep. and suddenly we’re in my car at 2am, not saying anything, just staring. the kind of silence that hurts more than yelling.

“this isn’t good for us,” i whispered once, my voice cracking. “i know,” he said. but he didn’t leave.

we ruined each other in the quiet ways — by staying too long, by needing too much, by never learning how to be alone. i lost parts of myself trying to hold on to him. and maybe he did too. but he never showed it.

sometimes i still think about the way he looked at me like i was both a miracle and a mistake. like he knew he’d never love me right, but he’d still try. until he couldn’t anymore.

we haven’t spoken in weeks now. no calls. no texts. just silence.

but god, i miss it. even the fighting. even the ache.

i miss the way he said my name like it was a secret, like it belonged to him. and i hate myself for it.

because i know if he texted me right now — “come over?” — i would.

even knowing how it ends. even knowing it never really does.

⸻

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