congratulations, you almost bagged a life pivot.

(for the man who looked me dead in the eye, told me every sin he ever committed, made me feel safe in the wreckage—and still managed to fumble it in under 48 hours)

i almost let you hit.
not because you’re charming.
not because of the sleeve.
not even because of the baby daddy energy that screamed—
“i cheat and cry about it.”

no—
you almost got me
because you were honest.

you told me straight up:
you’ve cheated on every woman who’s ever loved you.
you never stayed.
you never healed.
you always run.
and i just sat there,
feeding my toddler puréed sweet potatoes,
thinking—damn.

he’s hot/messy and honest?
what is this,
a baby daddy redemption arc with arm tats and full narrative transparency?
an ex-marine grow-up glow in human form?
sign me the fuck up.
(fucking jesus christ;
why am i like this)

you looked at me like you’d seen god once,
and she looked a lot like me.
you held your entire sad boy backstory in one hand
and a screwdriver for my kid’s toy in the other.
i saw it.

i held it like a crystal ball
the possibility.

and i almost believed it.
almost.

but baby—
you had 48 hours.
forty. eight.
to say anything.
a “yo.”
a “that was wild.”
a “i can still taste your lipgloss.”
god, even a fucking fire emoji.

instead?
siren noises. ghost protocol.
vanished like intimacy gave you fight or flight.

and look.
i get it.
you said women always chase you.
but baby—
i told you i don’t play.
(not because i’m better,
because i’m extra traumatized)
i’m the exception.
i delete threads.
i close doors.
i block because i almost felt something.

because “friends with benefits”
needs the friends part.
you know—
where i don’t scare the shit out of you?
acknowledging i held your entire lifetime of damage
while agreeing you were absolutely—
the asshole you admitted to being.
but acknowledging you didn’t have to continue to be.

i showed you peace without babying you.
just nodded, like,
“yeah babe, that tracks.”
because it did.
you were textbook tragic—
but with enough self-awareness
that it made me think twice.
(hard pause)

and i didn’t try to fix you.

and still.
you fumbled.

so yeah.
i wanted you.
more than i should’ve.
you were hot.
like “ruin my life and i’d let you” hot.
like “i’d justify this with astrology later” hot.

but i saw the truth.
the part where if i stayed,
you’d love me just enough to break me.
so i deleted the number—
the thread.
all of it.
before i had to recover from you.

and that?
shit.

that’s new.
usually i’d let you ruin my life.

🖤