The summer heat had clung to my skin the first time I met him, the low rumble of his motorcycle filling the air before I even saw his face.

We met online. He was the kind of person who carried a storm behind his eyes—wild, restless, impossible to hold onto. And maybe that was exactly what drew me in.

For weeks, we lived in a world of warm nights and stolen moments. Riding behind him, the wind tangled in my hair, I thought maybe this was what freedom felt like.

He never said much, but when he smiled, it was enough. At least I wanted to believe it was.

Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone. No explanation. No message. Just silence.

I told myself not to care, that I had always known he was a fleeting kind of person. But still, I waited for the sound of that engine. Still, I hoped.

The hope died the afternoon I saw him again. Another girl’s arms wrapped around his waist, her head leaning against his back like mine used to.

And in that moment, I understood more about him than he had ever told me. It was all I needed to know.

I let go of him that day. Truly let go.

Weeks later, when his name lit up my phone, my chest tightened with something between anger and sadness. He was reaching out, like he always could, as if the pieces of me he left behind were his to claim whenever he wanted.