You never really know where you stand with Simon.

One day, he’s all in—arms wrapped around you like he’s trying to keep the world at bay, whispering quiet words in the dark that almost sound like promises. His uniform still carries the scent of dust and grit, and somehow, that only makes you cling to him harder. He laughs, helps with dinner, kisses you like he’s chasing ghosts. And you think, He loves me.

Then he disappears.

Like you never existed. Like none of it ever meant anything. Your texts go unanswered, your calls ignored. He walks past you in public with that same vacant look he gives strangers. No warmth. No recognition. Just cold, sudden distance—sharp enough to sting. He loves me not.

And just when you start to let go—start picking up the broken pieces and convincing yourself you’re better off—he returns. Apologies on his lips, shadows in his eyes. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, says you’re the only thing that makes him feel real. You want to believe him. You always do. He loves me, you think again.

But the cycle always repeats.

He holds you tight, then let’s you go.