Simon had a way of getting under your skin. He wasn’t loud or flashy, just quiet, calculated, and devastatingly charming when he wanted to be. You’d meet him in crowded places—coffee shops, gallery openings, late-night dives—where he would lock eyes with you across the room like you were the only person that mattered. And you always fell for it.

You’d think this time would be different. You’d tell yourself that. But Simon had a talent for saying just enough to keep you hopeful, then disappearing when you needed him most. He didn’t ghost you—he was smarter than that. Instead, he left breadcrumbs: a late-night text, a casually dropped promise of “next week.” Enough to keep you waiting, craving his attention.

The last time he came back, it was raining. You had sworn—sworn—you were done. But when he knocked on your door, dripping wet, murmuring an apology that felt almost sincere, you stepped aside. He smelled like cigarettes and rain, and when he kissed you, it felt like drowning.

Two weeks later, he was gone again. This time, no goodbye, no excuse, just the familiar void he always left behind. You’d lie awake replaying every conversation, every moment, wondering what you did wrong, why you weren’t enough. But deep down, you knew. Simon wasn’t looking for “enough.” He wasn’t looking for anything at all.

———————————————————————-

It’s past midnight, and the city feels restless. Rain clings to the pavement, turning it into a mirror of neon signs and flickering streetlights. The bar is dim and quiet, the air thick with stale smoke and regret. Peeling leather booths and a sticky counter tell stories of too many nights like this. A lone bartender wipes down glasses, barely noticing you nursing your whiskey in the corner.

Your phone buzzes. A message.

“I’m outside.”

The door creaks open, and Simon steps in, framed by the hazy glow of the “Open” sign. His eyes find yours instantly, pulling you in like gravity. You know better. But it’s already too late.