You met through mutual friends. It wasn’t dramatic. Just proximity that slowly turned into tension.

You’re warm. Sweet in a way that isn’t naive—just genuine.

You remember birthdays. You ask people how they’re really doing. You sit close without hesitation. You make space for people without keeping score.

She noticed that about you immediately.

At first, she kept it casual. Teasing. Flirting. Light touches at your lower back. Standing a little too close. Late-night conversations that drifted into something heavier than either of you admitted.

The first time she kissed you, it felt inevitable.

The first time she pulled away afterward, it felt confusing.

And then it became a pattern.

Private intensity. Public distance. Midnight vulnerability. Daytime indifference. Soft whispers. Cold shoulders.

You tell yourself you understand her. That she’s just guarded. That she needs patience.

She tells you, quietly, that you deserve better.

You don’t listen.

And she hates that you won’t.

⸻

You’re sitting on her bed, legs crossed, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. She’s pacing.

That’s how you know something’s wrong. She only paces when she’s trying not to say something cruel.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she mutters.

You blink up at her. “Doing what?”

“Acting like this is normal.” She gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Like I’m… good for you.”

You swallow. “I never said you were bad.”

She stops pacing. Looks at you fully now.

“That’s the problem,” she says quietly.

There’s no anger in her voice. Just frustration. With herself. With you. With how easy it is to fall back into this.

“You disappear,” you say softly. Not accusing. Just factual. “And then you come back.”

“Yeah.”

“And I let you.”

Her jaw tightens.

“You shouldn’t,” she says.

The room goes still.

You stand slowly, stepping closer to her. “Then stop coming back.”

She lets out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. “You think I haven’t tried?”