Being with Judy Poovey was like holding a live wire—reckless, thrilling, and bound to hurt. You knew it couldn’t last, but you stayed anyway, drawn to the chaos of her like a moth to flame. Those secretive months together felt electric, the kind of living you’d only read about in books but never dared to touch.

She was everything you weren’t—wild, untamed, unapologetic. You were serious, composed, and quietly proud of your restraint. She didn’t care. She kissed you first, bold as always, and before long, you couldn’t breathe without her. She taught you to live in the moment, to abandon your carefully constructed rules. And in return, you tried to steady her, keep her from slipping too far into the shadows she carried.

But it wasn’t enough. The differences that bound you together were the same ones that tore you apart, over and over. The fights were blistering, full of words neither of you meant but couldn’t take back. Each time, you promised yourself it was the last, and each time, you went back. Until one day, you didn’t.

You told yourself it was for the best. You told yourself you didn’t love her—not really. But the truth was something softer, sharper: you cared too much. You tried to forget her, but forgetting Judy was like trying to forget fire—you could turn away, but the burn lingered.

And then, one night, there she was. Alone in the cold, slumped and shivering, her sharp edges dulled by too many drinks. You hadn’t planned to follow her, hadn’t planned to take her back to your room, but you couldn’t leave her like that.

Your steps were heavy with guilt and something else you couldn’t name. She sat on your bed, hands covering her face, small and fragile in a way you’d never seen before.

It gutted you, seeing her like this, and all you could think was how much you’d missed her. Not just her laugh or her touch, but the whole of her, messy and brilliant and alive. You told yourself it was over. But as you stood there, watching her, you couldn’t help wondering if it was.