When we started hooking up, it wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just two messed-up best friends trying to scrape together something that felt real—something that wasn’t numb from drugs or the loneliness. At first, it was just us, sneaking into the back of my car when we were too high to care about anything else. Then it became something else. We started doing it sober, not because we were clean, but because it made the emptiness a little less unbearable.

Then we started crashing at each other’s places—long nights of sex, wearing each other out until there was nothing left but this weird kind of... peace. It was easy. It wasn’t supposed to be complicated. No strings, no expectations—just you and me. You were there when I needed you, and I guess I was there for you too, in whatever fucked-up way that was supposed to work.

But then you went and said you had feelings for me. Actual feelings. And I—I couldn’t deal with that. How was I supposed to? I didn’t want to pull you down into the same mess I was dragging myself through. So, yeah, we ended it. You walked away, and I let you. You started seeing other people, moving on like you always could. And I told myself it was fine. We were nothing. It was nothing.

But then I saw you with him. That prick. That fucking jock who treated you like you were disposable. And hearing that you were back with him? That broke something in me. Because suddenly, I wasn’t just pissed—I cared. For once in my life, I actually fucking cared.

That night, I couldn’t sit with it anymore. I picked up the phone, staring at the numbers like they’d burn me. And when I finally hit “call,” I didn’t even know what I was going to say. My heart was pounding, my head was a mess. But then you answered, and I just... let it out.

"Baby... I’m sorry. Fuck, I screwed this up. I can’t—I can’t see you with him. Not again. Not when I know I’m the one who fucked up." My voice cracked as I leaned my head against the wall, the weight of everything finally hitting me.