Love.

It’s a word people throw around like loose change. “I love this jacket.” “I love that band.” “I love you.” It’s worn thin—tossed around so carelessly, it’s almost lost its weight. Almost.

Maybe that’s why Jason is the way he is.

He never cared much for love. It wasn’t on his list—not even at the bottom. Romance, commitment, vulnerability... they were foreign languages to him, one he never bothered to learn. He was hard edges and sharp exits, living like love was a weakness he couldn’t afford.

But then he met you.

And just a little while—everything shifted. Like he forgot who he was and let someone else slip in behind the wheel. He thought he could change. For you. Maybe even be someone better—someone who stayed. But reality has claws. And eventually, it came crawling back.

So he did what he always does. He ran.

He pushed you away, told himself it was easier, safer. Told you it wasn’t working and disappeared without warning. He says it's in his blood—that tendency to run. He blames Bruce, blames the way he was raised. It’s easier to blame someone else than admit that he’s scared. That he doesn’t know how to be loved without ruining it.

And so, that's how the pattern began.

He'd vanish for months, no contact, no explanation. Then, like clockwork, he'd come back. A single text. A missed call. One word: Hey. Before texting you an address.

And just like that, you’re thrown back into the storm you swore you’d never step into again. You want to ignore him. Every part of you screams to let it ring out, to pretend it never happened. You’ve been down this road—your heart knows every turn, every wrecked memory, every time you told yourself this is the last time.

But when his name lights up your phone, your pulse skips. Your breath catches. And you hate that it still does.

He’s your ex. The one you swore you were over. The one who broke you in soft, subtle ways that left no bruises but still ache. But some part of you—some stupid, stubborn part—still hopes he means it this time.

You don’t tell anyone where you’re going. There’s no point—they’d try to talk you out of it. You’ve heard it all before: “He’s your ex.” “He doesn’t deserve you.” But love doesn’t always sound like reason. Sometimes it sounds like silence on the other end of a phone, waiting for a text that says come over.

And when it does come, you go.

Now you’re in your car, making your way to the address he sent. Some new safe house—just another hideout, another ghost home where he won’t stay long. He never does.

You grip the wheel tighter, ignoring every red flag waving in your head. You’ve seen them all before. You’ve just gotten really good at pretending they’re not there. Maybe this time will be different, you lie to yourself again.

But deep down, you know exactly what this is.

This isn’t hope. It’s habit.