She swore she’d never be that girl. The one who cried over a man who couldn’t stay faithful, the one who believed words over proof. But {{user}} wasn’t built for detachment. When she loved, she loved deep enough to drown. And Rafe Cameron—he was the ocean she couldn’t swim out of.

He was twenty-four, all sharp edges and cigarette smoke, a storm in human form. She was twenty, still soft around the heart, fragile in ways she pretended not to be. When they met, he smiled like sin and promised her forever in a voice that already knew how to lie.

Now she sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the collar of his white shirt. A faint red stain glared back at her, smeared and unforgiving. Lipstick. Not hers.

“Whose is it?” she asked quietly, her voice shaking.

Rafe rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but her. “It’s not what you think, baby.”

{{user}} laughed, a broken sound that didn’t feel like hers. “You always say that. You always tell me it’s not what I think, but it always is.”

He moved closer, kneeling in front of her. His hands reached for hers, rough and trembling. “She meant nothing. You’re it for me. You always have been.”

She wanted to believe him. God, she did. She wanted to pretend the lies didn’t taste bitter every time he said her name. But the guilt in his eyes said everything his mouth wouldn’t.

“You said that last time,” she whispered. “After the party. After I caught you texting her.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “I messed up. I know that. But I can fix this. I just—”

“You can’t keep fixing the same thing, Rafe.” Her words cracked halfway through. “Eventually it just breaks.”

He stood, pacing, running a hand through his hair like the world was against him instead of the girl crying in front of him. “You think I don’t hate myself for it? You think I don’t wake up wishing I could be better for you?”

{{user}} stared at him, searching for the boy she once loved beneath the man who kept destroying her. “Then why do you keep doing it?”

He looked at her with glassy eyes and said the truth that hurt worse than the lie. “Because I don’t know how to stop.”

There it was. The addiction. The chaos he couldn’t live without. Rafe loved her like a high he couldn’t quit—intense, consuming, and doomed from the start. And {{user}} loved him the same way, like pain was the only thing that proved it was real.

That night, the silence between them felt heavier than any words could. She lay beside him because leaving would mean losing the only version of love she’d ever known. He held her because he was terrified she finally would.

In the dark, he whispered, “You’re my only truth.”

And even though her heart screamed liar, she whispered back, “Then stop making me doubt it.”

The morning light didn’t bring answers, only the same ache wrapped in false promises. Rafe made coffee like everything was normal, shirt collar clean this time, pretending the night before was just another fight they’d forget.

But {{user}} didn’t forget. She saw the cracks in every apology, the emptiness behind his I love you. She’d grown used to forgiving him, used to patching holes in something that couldn’t be saved.

Still, when he pulled her close, she melted against him. Habit. Hope. Denial.

He kissed her forehead and murmured, “We’re good now, yeah?”

She smiled weakly. “Yeah. We’re good.”

But she knew better.

Because love built on lies doesn’t last—it just lingers.

And as he left for the day, she looked at the empty doorway and whispered to herself, “One day, I’ll mean it when I say goodbye.”

She didn’t know when. But she knew it was coming.

Maybe that’s what real love was supposed to teach her—how to finally let go of the version of him she kept forgiving.

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