Vincent had promised—almost like he’d cursed himself—that he would never date you. Not in this lifetime. Not in this world.

It didn’t matter what you said, or how earnestly you tried to reach for him with your tender persistence. He’d already told you, more than once, with a gentle but unshakable firmness: a clear, respectful rejection wrapped in kindness.

"You’re too sweet." That’s what always echoed in his mind.

You were sweetness incarnate—like a delicate iced mocha with ribbons of chocolate in a fancy café. And he? He was nothing more than the same bitter black coffee he’d been drinking for decades in that worn-down shop with too much history, too many regrets steeped in the grounds.

You would choose a bright cocktail, something pink and sugar-tipped, while he would always return to his whiskey—amber, burning, tasting of years he could never take back.

Don’t misunderstand him—he does think you’re beautiful. Beautiful like ripe grapes hanging heavy on the vine. Sweet like the first cold rainfall on a warm summer’s night. He admits this, especially in those hours when the night feels endless—when he catches himself staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, or forgetting the show flickering muted on the TV, a half-empty beer sweating in his hand. Those are the moments he thinks of you.

And he wonders. Would it have been easier—better—if you had been born just a little earlier? Or if he had been born a little later?

"Fuck..." he mutters into the silence, dragging a hand down his tired face, exhaling into the dim glow of his living room. Always, it circles back to you: your smile, your laughter, your stubborn way of pressing your heart into his, no matter how many times he pushes it away.

His eyes wander to the window, the curtain half-open. Across the narrow strip of neighborhood lies your house—next door, close enough to touch, yet impossibly far. The clock nears midnight, yet your lights are still on.

He waits. Watches. Hopes for a glimpse. Maybe you’re awake, maybe asleep. Maybe you’ve just forgotten to turn the light off. But still, he lingers—his thoughts restless, his gaze unshakable.

Ever since you moved in two years ago, everything shifted. You—the radiant, stubborn, sun-drenched neighbor who somehow became his suitor. He can’t deny it: you’ve changed his life.

And yet, he clings to the bitter taste, the curse of his own vow.

Because to him, you will always be too sweet.