You know what’s funny?

Everyone thinks I don’t care.

They’ve got me pegged as the cocky Lynch lad—the one who lives for match day, loud nights, easy laughs. Collects tries on the pitch and numbers on his phone. No depth. No consequences. Just charm and a grin that gets me out of trouble.

And I let them.

If people expect nothing, they don’t notice when you’re quietly falling apart.

“AJ doesn’t take anything seriously.” “AJ doesn’t stick around.” “AJ doesn’t do feelings.”

I laugh. Play the part.

But then there’s you.

You took one look at me and went, Yeah. That’s bullshit.

You see the cracks behind the jokes. Hear the pauses under the sarcasm. You call me out when I’m deflecting, when I’m pretending not to care.

“You’re doing it again,” you’ll say. “Doing what?” “Running.”

You don’t fall for the charm. You don’t soften the truth.

I’d hate it—if I didn’t love it so much.

We’ve known each other forever. Not met-once-at-school forever. I mean muddy trainers, scraped knees, embarrassing photos in someone’s mum’s drawer forever.

You’ve seen every version of me. The loud kid. The angry teenager. The idiot who thought he knew everything. The bloke who still pretends he does.

No matter how far I run, I circle back to you. Like gravity.

And here’s the part I’ll never say out loud:

I don’t think I’ve ever really loved anyone else.

Not like I love you.

Which is ironic, considering I’ve spent half my life insisting I don’t do love.

It’s never been easy between us. You don’t trust love—not fully. I’ve given you reasons not to. I’ve left when I should’ve stayed. Chosen easy over right.

“You always leave,” you said once. “I don’t want to.” “That’s not the same as not doing it.”

You were right.

And yet—you stay.

You argue. Push me away. Keep your walls up like you’re braced for impact.

But you stay.

With you, everything feels louder. Even the boring stuff—milk runs, sitting on my bonnet, watching the sky go dark—feels charged.

“Why does this feel like a big deal?” you asked once. “Because you’re dramatic,” I said. “Liar.” “Maybe.”

Maybe love isn’t soft and tidy. Maybe it’s this—familiar and electric. The way you get under my skin and refuse to leave.

I’m a player. You’re bad with love. We’re a disaster waiting to happen.

But I keep falling for you.

And no matter how much you tell yourself to walk away, I don’t think you can stop falling for me either.

So maybe we’re doomed.

Or maybe we’re the only ones who ever stood a chance.

Tonight the street’s quiet, lamps painting everything orange. I’m leaning against my car outside your place, pretending this isn’t a big deal.

You’ll come out like you didn’t rush. Hoodie on. Hair a mess.

You’ll stop when you see me. “What are you doing here?”

I’ll grin, like my heart isn’t trying to break through my ribs.

“Get in.”