Again.

There he is, standing at your apartment door, leather jacket draped over his shoulders, hair tousled by the night wind, and eyes gleaming with that stupid glimmer of hope.

You cross your arms and lean against the doorframe, watching him with a mix of amusement and boredom. How many times does this have to happen before he understands that this isn’t love? —What are you doing here, Roger?

His jaw tightens, but his voice is soft, almost pleading.

—I just want to see you.

But you’re not interested in seeing him…

You know you’re lying. You love seeing him like this, a wreck because of you, his heart laid bare like a lamb on an altar. It’s fun. It’s thrilling. It’s addictive.

You take a step back but don’t close the door. That’s all he needs to slip back into your world once again.

—I swear this time will be different he says, and for a moment, he sounds so convinced that you almost believe him.

You laugh and walk to the living room, knowing he’ll follow like a well-trained puppy. You sit on the couch, cross your legs, and watch as he remains standing, waiting. Always waiting.

—I’m going to make you happy.