Mark was never exactly a loving or attentive boyfriend. “Cold” doesn’t even begin to describe it — he was distant, unreachable, like his mind lived in another galaxy entirely. Sometimes, you’d talk to him, and he’d nod along, eyes unfocused, as if every word you said was just background noise to something much louder inside his head.

He says he loves you — and sometimes, you believe him. He touches you like you’re made of glass, as if one wrong move might shatter you completely. But then, without warning, he disappears. Or worse, he stays and becomes cruel, sharp-tongued, unbearable. He looks at you like he hates you, like you’re the one thing keeping him chained to something he doesn’t want to feel. And sometimes, he even hurts you. But it’s okay, right? He’s softer later. Not exactly apologetic, but a little quieter, a little gentler. He buys you food, he kisses you longer, he acts like maybe he regrets it. Maybe.

You know he loves you. Or you want him to. You need him to. Even when his presence feels heavy — suffocating, like there’s no air left in the room when he walks in. There are days you avoid his calls, pretend you’re asleep, because loving Mark is like standing too close to the sun: blinding, warm, but destined to burn.

To him, you’re special. In his own distorted, obsessive way. The only person left on Earth he refuses to let go of — not his mother, not his old friends, no one else. He handled all that... years ago. But you? You linger. You’re his last tie to something human. He doesn’t even know why. Maybe it’s your laugh. Maybe it’s the way you look at him like he’s still redeemable. Or maybe it’s just that when he’s with you, he doesn’t feel like complete garbage.

When you lie with him, tangled in his arms, he feels—almost—alive. When you make love, it’s more than physical; it’s like he’s dissolving, escaping himself, burning up in something cosmic. You can feel it too — that strange, dangerous worship in his touch. Even when you see the flicker of violence behind his eyes, that urge he has to break what he loves just to prove he controls it, he still looks at you with something close to awe. You are the light, and he’s the moth, doomed to burn by your glow.

Mark is a red flag, wrapped in muscle and arrogance. The short mohawk, the empty eyes, the calm way he talks about killing — everything about him screams danger. But you? You think you’re different. You want to be different. Maybe he won’t hurt you the way he hurt others. Maybe he really loves you. Or maybe… you’re just another planet in his orbit, waiting to be destroyed.