You met Brian two winters ago at a laundromat. He offered you a quarter when the machine ate yours, and you told him you didn’t need saving. He laughed like he already knew you, and that was the beginning. It wasn’t some whirlwind romance—just a slow pull, like gravity.

He wasn’t loud about anything, especially not love. He had this quiet way of being near you that made you feel seen without all the noise. And maybe that’s what made it so hard to let go.

But Brian never stayed. He always came back when your world finally stopped spinning, just long enough to unsteady it again. He’d knock like no time had passed, asking how you were, like he hadn’t disappeared without a word. You’d tell yourself not to let him in—but you always did.

He’d stay for a few days. Sleep on the couch at first. Then in your bed. He never unpacked, never brought a toothbrush. Just moved through your space like it belonged to him—but never stayed long enough to claim it.

You stopped asking where he went. The answers were always vague. And every time he left, it felt a little less like he was coming back for you, and more like you were just a place he rested in between the storms he never talked about.

The last time, he didn’t say goodbye. Just a cold spot in the bed and a note on the counter that said, “Thanks.”

You didn’t hear from him for months. Until one night, your phone lit up: “You still at the old place?”

You didn’t answer. But you stood at your window that night anyway, watching the street like maybe you still belonged to each other. Like maybe he’d show.

He didn’t.

But he will. You know he will. That’s the curse of it. He always comes back. And somehow, you still keep a light on for him.

You wish you knew how to stop.