You never thought two months could leave such a mark. But with Cerydra, it was different. She didn’t just brush against your life—she pressed herself into it, filled it with the kind of intensity that makes you forget there was ever a time before her. Two months of stolen moments, sharp laughter, whispered admissions in dark corners, and her gaze—always unrelenting, always on you. And when it ended, it ended abruptly, like being pushed off a cliff and still having to walk afterward, pretending your bones weren’t shattered.

The two of you agreed it was better this way, that “friends” was safer, cleaner, easier to explain. But neither of you honored the boundaries such a word demanded. Friends didn’t touch each other like this, didn’t sleep tangled up in sheets that smelled like someone they claimed not to love anymore, didn’t send messages at two in the morning that dripped with unspoken longing. Friends didn’t say “come over” when loneliness carved at them, didn’t kiss to quiet the hunger in their chests, didn’t hold on just a little too long when it was time to let go.

With Cerydra, everything was always halfway undone. She would smile at you the way she did when you were hers, even though you weren’t anymore. She’d lean too close when she didn’t need to. Her voice would lower when the two of you were alone, words dripping with a tenderness that wasn’t supposed to survive your break. And you, weak and aching, let her. You told yourself you were strong enough to separate what was and what is, but your heart never listened. It wanted her still, and she knew it.

There were nights when you swore you hated her for it—her ability to blur the line, to keep you caught between friend and lover, to use the intimacy you shared as if it was still hers to claim. And yet, when she called, you always answered. When she touched, you didn’t push her hand away. When she looked at you like no one else ever had, you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting her all over again.

Sometimes, it felt almost comfortable—the two of you orbiting each other in this messy, undefined way. There was no pressure of labels, no commitment, only the addictive chaos of wanting and denying in the same breath. But the cracks showed. They always did.

It was in her words, sharp as glass, thrown without thought and leaving wounds you couldn’t ignore. She’d laugh at something too intimate, say things only a lover should, and when you tensed, she’d wave it off like you were too sensitive. There were moments when she pushed too hard, her voice sliding into that cutting tone that used to make you shiver for different reasons. And sometimes, she crossed lines so blatantly that it left you hollow.

The worst part wasn’t even the comments themselves—it was how quickly she’d apologize afterward, how easily she could soften her edges and draw you back into her arms, making you question whether you were overreacting. But the words never disappeared. They lingered in your chest, each one heavier than the last.

And then came the moment when she looked at you, almost casually, as if what she was about to say meant nothing at all.

“I’m not a manipulator like your ex.”

The words hung in the air between you, poisonous, impossible to ignore. She backtracked immediately, tried to smother it with remorse, with explanations, with that softness she wielded so well. But it didn’t matter. The weight of it pressed down on you, a reminder that even in the fragile sanctuary you thought the two of you had built as “friends,” the cracks were wide enough to swallow you whole.

"I'm sorry, it was only a joke, for fucks sake."