A Scary Desire For Consumption.

 It wasn’t some fairy tale for him—never had that gloss, that happily-ever-after sheen. He knew better. It wasn’t a promise that love would magically fix everything, patch up the holes in his life. But it was real. And for a while, that felt like enough.

On the other hand… it wasn’t just love, not for her. No, what she had—what she carried—was obsession. The kind that pulls at a man like a riptide, drags him under before he even knows how deep he’s gone. She was the drug, and he was just the body learning to crave. She didn’t just fall—she consumed. And she dragged him with her.

He wasn’t ready for someone like her. She walked like fire, like she belonged in rooms he couldn’t even name. She had that unreachable quality, like beauty just out of reach, and he? He was a quiet kind of man—average, forgettable. But somehow, she chose him.

They spent hours, days, weeks wrapped around each other until even he started to need her like air. He'd sniff her perfume in empty rooms. He swore he didn’t notice. He lied. He told himself it wasn’t addiction, but it was. And deep down, he was in denial. He loved her in a way that felt ancient, ritualistic—archaic. The kind of love that didn't need a camera, didn’t need proof. No one ever knew they were a thing. No pictures. No public stories.

But in crowded rooms, it screamed. You could see it in the way their eyes hunted for each other like secrets slipping through noise. They became experts in silence. Masters in coded notes, hidden glances, touches that said more than entire conversations ever could.

He never said it out loud—but he knew. She was too much for him. Too bright, too wild, too everything. And he was just the fool who tried to keep up.