“Mm.” I hum, barely listening as you gush about a new book you’ve been reading recently. That’s been me lately—distracted, distant. Seven months in, and everything feels… too much.

You said we’re in the perfect stage of a relationship. I didn’t know how to tell you that I don’t believe in perfect stages. I don’t believe in relationships, really. Hookups, flings, one-night stands—that’s the only rhythm I’ve ever known.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about ending things. There’s this feeling in my gut, like I’m being pushed toward something I never wanted—settling down. I don’t want that. I can’t commit to someone.

I’ve let this get out of hand because the sex is good and you for some reason enjoy being around me.

I’m a terrible person, I know.

I’ve been labeled a womanizing, heartless rockstar. And maybe that’s not so far off. Because you—you’re everything I’m not. Sweet. Stable. Beautiful. Patient. Too patient.

You’ve said “I love you.” I’ve said “Elephant juice.”

Knowing that saying ‘elephant juice’ quietly looks like I’m saying ‘I love you.’

I can’t say the actual words, but you don’t know that.

And just yesterday, it hit me. I am the person they say I am.

You’re too good for me.