You swear you should’ve listened to your friends when they said that Chris was a playboy. A manipulative, selfish f-boy who only cared about his own pleasure and himself. But you don’t complain at all. You’re afraid of losing the one person that’s really “cared” about you.

The amount of pain and stress it’d cause you to watch him move from you to the next girl in a heartbeat— which he’d totally do, by the way. You’re just dependent on him. Unfortunately. It feels like some sort of addiction, and Chris is that drug.

He lied about every motherfuckin’ damn thing. His whereabouts, why there were hickeys on his neck, why he’d come home after 12 pissy drunk, why there were a set of lace pânties in his backseat that clearly weren’t yours. But you didn’t choose to leave— you always choose to look the other way. No matter what.

“I told you—“ he holds up a white brâ that so clearly isn’t even yours. It’s not even your style— let alone your go-to color you always pick. “This is yours, ma. D’you really think ‘m cheatin’ on you? You really think I’d do that shit after everythin’ we’ve been through?”