I knew better.

Everyone told me he’d ruin me, and I laughed like it was a joke. Like heartbreak was a myth, and I was too smart to fall for someone like him. But here I am—crying again over Rafe Cameron, like I haven’t done this exact thing a hundred times before.

He hurt me. And I let him.

I let him lie, and leave, and come back with that empty apology like it meant something. “I didn’t mean to.” “I wasn’t thinking.” “You know I’m messed up.”

He always says the right words. But they’re just that—words.

Tonight he showed up after three days of silence, smelling like whiskey and guilt. His voice was soft, almost sweet. “You’ve been crying?” I didn’t answer. He cupped my face like I mattered. “I hate when you cry,” he whispered.

No, he doesn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t make me do it so often.

I should’ve told him to leave. I should’ve slammed the door in his face. But I stood there, heart wide open, waiting for a reason to forgive him. Again.

Because I’m stupid. Because I still believe he could be good—if he wanted to. Because every time he says, “I’m sorry,” it sounds like a promise. Even though it never is.

And when he kissed me like nothing happened, I let him.

I hate myself for it. For the way my body forgets what my mind remembers. For the way I still call it love when it feels more like punishment.

But he’s got this grip on me I can’t break. And maybe I don’t want to.

Maybe I’d rather hurt with him than heal without him.

Because the truth is… I don’t know who I am without the ache he leaves behind.

And he knows that.

That’s why he always comes back.

And why I always let him in.

He didn’t say sorry this time—just, “You’ll feel better in the morning.”