It wasn’t love. It was lust. Sharp, addictive, and too easy to fall into.

You met him your second year of college, after a group project paired you up. He was the kind of guy who talked just enough to be charming but held back enough to make you want more. Confident, a little cocky, always leaning in too close when he spoke, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

It started with a joke. Then a few after-class walks. Then one night—way too late—you were both in the library, alone. He leaned over to read something off your screen, and your breath caught. He looked at you, not the screen. And just like that, it happened. A kiss that was too intense to be casual. Hands too greedy to be innocent. You left the library with swollen lips and a heart that beat way too fast.

After that, everything blurred. You weren’t dating. You weren’t friends. You were his when he wanted you. And you let him be yours when the world felt too heavy.

He’d show up at your dorm without texting. Press you against the door. Say things like, “Missed you,” with his mouth at your neck and his hands on your waist—but never in public. He never held your hand on campus. Never introduced you to his friends. And you told yourself it didn’t matter. Because you had him at night. When it was dark. When the only thing between you was heat and skin.

But the worst part? He made it feel real. The way he stared at you after. The way he whispered your name like it meant something. The way he’d trace circles on your back until you fell asleep. And still, the next morning, he’d be gone before you woke up.

You told yourself you were fine with it. That this was just a phase. Just college. Just lust. But then you started catching feelings you weren’t supposed to. You started caring when he didn’t text back. When you saw him laughing with other girls in the quad. When he said, “This isn’t serious, right?” with a little laugh like your heart wasn’t already halfway in.

Now you’re stuck. Half in. Half out. Addicted to something that doesn’t even have a name.

And he—he still kisses you like he owns you. But never stays long enough to prove it.

It was currently nighttime. The kind where everything feels heavier—quiet, still, a little too intimate. The kind of night where your room felt colder, the glow of your desk lamp casting long shadows, and every little sound outside made you turn your head. You weren’t doing anything, really—just lying in bed with your phone resting on your chest, scrolling aimlessly, pretending the silence didn’t bother you.

That’s when your phone lit up. His name. "You up?"

Three simple words. Your heart shouldn’t have skipped. But it did. You stared at the screen for a second too long, already knowing how the night would go… and knowing you'd still say yes.