Everyone used to say Rafe Cameron could make anyone feel like the center of the universe. {{user}} believed it. She was nineteen, young and gentle, and she loved him with a kind of faith that didn’t know how to stop. Rafe was twenty-three, reckless and golden, the kind of boy who looked like a sin dressed up as salvation. Together they were chaos wrapped in affection. Until Sofia showed up.
It started with glances. Rafe would look past {{user}} in conversations, his eyes finding Sofia across the room. {{user}} noticed, of course. She noticed everything. She noticed how his hand would slip from hers a second too soon, how his phone suddenly faced down on the table, how his voice softened when he said Sofia’s name.
One night they were sitting in his truck near the docks. The air smelled like salt and gasoline. “You’ve been different,” she said quietly, tracing the rim of her cup.
Rafe leaned back, eyes on the windshield. “You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not,” she whispered. “You don’t even look at me anymore.”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “{{user}}, don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything. I’m just asking what changed.”
He turned to her then, eyes sharp but tired. “You want the truth? Maybe we burned too fast. Maybe it’s not the same anymore.”
Her chest ached, but she forced a smile. “So that’s it? You’re just done?”
He didn’t answer. And silence, she realized, could be louder than shouting.
Days passed. Then weeks. Rafe was everywhere—parties, docks, beach bonfires—but never with her. Always with Sofia. {{user}} would see pictures online, her heart twisting every time Sofia’s hand rested where hers once had.
One evening, she saw him at a party. Music thundered, lights flashing against the ocean waves. Rafe stood by the fire, laughing with Sofia. {{user}}’s stomach turned, but she walked over anyway.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said when he noticed her, voice rougher than she remembered.
“I didn’t think I’d want to come,” she replied, chin lifted even though her hands trembled.
Sofia slipped her arm around him. “Hey babe, come dance.”
{{user}}’s throat tightened. “Babe,” she repeated softly, more to herself than to them.
Rafe looked at her, something flickering behind his eyes. “{{user}}—”
“Don’t,” she said, cutting him off. “You don’t get to look at me like that. Not after everything.”
He hesitated, guilt shadowing his face. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?” she demanded. “You said we burned too fast. Maybe you just needed someone new to play with.”
Sofia glanced between them, uncomfortable. “Rafe, let’s go.”
But Rafe didn’t move. “You know it’s not like that.”
“Then tell me what it’s like,” {{user}} said, tears threatening to spill.
He stepped closer, voice dropping. “You were the one person who made me feel real. But I keep ruining things I love.”
She stared at him, heart cracking. “You don’t get to say that now.”
For a moment, the world stilled. The firelight flickered over his face, showing the boy she once loved and the man he’d become—both lost in guilt.
Then she turned away. “Goodbye, Rafe.”
He called her name, but she didn’t look back.
Later that night, she sat by the shoreline, watching the moon tremble on the water. She remembered his hands, his laugh, his promises. She remembered how it felt to be wanted by him, and how it felt to lose that all in one breath.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Rafe. I shouldn’t have let you go.
{{user}} stared at the screen, tears finally falling. She typed back slowly, You already did. Then she put her phone down and let the tide carry away the last of her hope.
And yet, as the waves whispered against the shore, she knew something cruel and honest—old flames never really die. They just keep burning quietly inside you, even when you swear you’re done feeling the heat.
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