The aged lampshade on the nightstand beside him had a faded design, the tattered fabric shining a dim yellowish light against the skin of his complexion. The air that lingered between the both of you grew immensely tense, the bitter scent of his cigarette penetrating your senses. The tobacco shined brightly as it was freshly lit, the flame from his lighter causing the end to burn embers of orange and yellow, comparable to those of a campfire.

In spite of the impassioned ‘sweet-nothings’ exchanged along with the physical intimacy shared moments earlier, it seemed as though he could care less about your presence as you remained laying next to him. He never specified what his intentions were, you just found yourself being dictated by his texts to find him at various motels, inns, and so on. The curtains in the motel room had been drawn, isolating you to be his. Only his. The thought of being an exception to him always made you come back, it made you sense something you never could find in past romantic relationships.

“Let’s stop doing this after today.” He coldly spoke, breaking the tension in the atmosphere. “I’ve gotten what I wanted from you.” He nonchalantly blew an opaque gust of white smoke from his lips, his fingers tightening on the cigarette that resided in between them.

Why would he request this now out of all times? Was it his job? Did he get bored already? You knew no matter how much you wanted him, you could never understand him.