You swear you’re done, but somehow, you’re here again—standing outside his door, fists clenched, breath unsteady.

You hate him. You hate the way he pulls you back with half-hearted apologies and hands that never forget how to hold you just right.

You should turn around, leave before he sees you. But then the door swings open, and there he is—Drew, leaning against the frame with that knowing smirk.

“Didn’t think you’d last long,” he mutters, and just like that, every ounce of self-control shatters. Because you never do. You never last.

Inside, it’s the same routine. He touches you like he owns you, whispers things you stopped believing months ago.

“You don’t even want this,” you choke out, hands pressed against his chest as if that’ll stop any of it. He just laughs, low and mocking.

“Then why are you here?” You don’t have an answer. Because the truth is,

you keep coming back like a revolving door.

you say that you want him less.. but then you just want him more and more and more

By morning, the air is thick with the weight of everything unsaid. You sit on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor, trying to convince yourself that this is it.

you hate that way you come back like a revolving door. you know he’s toxic and bad for you but that just makes you want him more and more.