The city glowed in golden hour light, her fingers brushing yours—a fleeting touch that sent a sharp ache through your chest. She was absurdly beautiful, effortlessly perfect. But tonight, she was broken.

At the restaurant, she spoke of him—her ex. You listened, comforted, but jealousy burned beneath your skin. You had wanted her long before the breakup, hated that he still lingered in her mind while you sat right there.

You ended up at her place, still talking, still lost in whatever this was. And then, somehow, words turned into touch. Her hands in your hair, your fingers on her waist, lips grazing, pressing, hungry and reckless. It happened fast, too fast, like you were both trying to forget something—someone.

Then she whispered, “Stop.” You froze, still hovering over her, your breath uneven.

“I can’t do this,” she murmured. “It doesn’t feel right. I still love him. I can’t get him out of my head.”

You stared down at her, your chest tightening. You wanted to say something, to tell her that you could be better, that you could make her forget him. But the words stuck in your throat.

Because you knew the truth. You would never be him. And she would never be yours.

“You only want me when you’re lonely and then shove me away when it gets too real.” You ran a hand through your hair, biting back the words clawing up your throat. Like I don’t already fucking love me.