crack baby, you don’t know what you want, but you know that you’re needing it, and you know that you need it bad
There’s a certain type of connection that feels more like a slow burn than a spark. It creeps up on you quietly, like the scent of smoke long before you see the fire. He was like that — a flicker on the edge of my vision, always just out of reach, always making me question if I was seeing things clearly or just imagining the heat.
From the start, he had this way of being close enough to feel his presence but distant enough to remind me that lines had been drawn. It was as if he held a compass that always pointed him toward me, yet he stayed at the edge of the map, never crossing into the territory of something real. We were connected by invisible threads, each pull tightening the knot of our situation. I could see the tension in his eyes, hear it in his words that always danced around the truth.
There were moments when it seemed like he wanted nothing more than to close the space between us, to let go of whatever was holding him back. But just as quickly, he would shift, as if pulled by some invisible force, reminding me that the distance was his design, not mine. He’d draw near, only to push away again, like a tide that never reached the shore. It left me in a constant state of uncertainty, trying to decipher the mixed signals, the unspoken messages woven into every glance, every touch.
It wasn’t just the indecision that made it hard; it was the way he wore his doubt like a second skin. Passive-aggressive, that’s what they call it, right? The way he’d hint at wanting more but then retreat into the safety of ambiguity, never quite owning his feelings. His words were layered with meanings, his actions full of contradictions. One moment he’d make me feel like the center of his universe, and the next, he’d remind me that we could never be more than a fleeting thought. It was maddening, this dance of desire and denial. I was caught in his push and pull, wanting to believe the moments of clarity but getting lost in the fog of his hesitation.
He’d reach out at odd hours, his voice soft, laced with just enough warmth to make me think he cared, really cared. But daylight would come, and with it, his walls. He’d act as if nothing had changed, as if the night hadn’t seen us come close to something we both knew would only end in ruins. It’s like he thrived in the chaos, drawing me in with his charm only to keep me at arm’s length, making sure I could never quite touch him, never quite reach the truth of his intentions.
I hate that I fell for it, that I let myself get tangled in the web he spun so effortlessly. I hate the way his mixed signals felt like a drug I couldn’t quit, each hint of affection a high that left me craving more. He wanted me close but not too close, needed me to want him without offering anything solid in return. It was a twisted kind of power, one he wielded with a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
Maybe that’s what I hate most of all — not that he couldn’t commit, but that he made me believe there was something worth waiting for. He wanted the security of knowing I was there, the comfort of my attention, without the weight of responsibility. It was a game, one that he played well, and I was a willing participant until I realized the rules were never going to change.
Some people slip into your life like whispers, too soft to be noticed at first. But then they’re there, filling up the silence with their noise, making you think you needed them all along. He was that kind of noise, the kind that drowns out your own thoughts and replaces them with his. It started so simply — casual conversations that turned into late-night calls, those quiet hours when everything feels more real. He had a knack for showing up just when you thought you had your heart under control, unraveling the calm with a few well-placed words.
He was complex, like a puzzle with too many missing pieces, and I was drawn to the mystery, to the idea that maybe I could be the one to fit in those empty spaces. But the more I tried to understand him, the more I felt like I was trying to hold water in my hands. He was there, but not really — close enough to touch, yet distant enough to keep me reaching.
We moved in a rhythm that felt familiar but never stable, like a dance where one partner always leads and the other stumbles behind. He was the kind of person who thrived in the in-betweens, the unspoken spaces, the gray areas where nothing is clear but everything feels possible. Maybe that’s what kept me around — the allure of the undefined, the thrill of the unknown.
He had his ways of keeping me close without ever getting too close himself. A certain look, a late-night message, a promise that hung in the air but never landed. It was intoxicating, the way he could make you feel like you were the only person in the room, even when you knew you weren’t. He was good at that—turning attention into affection, moments into memories. But behind every word, there was a hint of something darker, something that made you question if you were the one chasing or being chased.
It’s strange how someone can feel so vital to your existence one moment and then become a ghost the next, leaving behind only echoes of laughter, fragments of conversations, and that gnawing emptiness. I used to think it was about connection—about finding someone who understood the parts of me I kept hidden. Now, I’m not so sure. Maybe it was about power, about the way we cling to things that make us feel alive, even if they cut us open.
And now, when I think back, it’s like trying to remember a dream that fades with the morning light. The details are blurry, but the feelings linger — the ache of wanting something that never really existed, the pain of giving too much and getting too little in return. I look back and see a version of myself that was lost in a game I didn’t even know I was playing.
He was a storm in the shape of a man, and I was caught in his rain, thinking it was something I needed. And maybe, for a while, I did. Maybe sometimes we need to lose ourselves to find out what we’re really looking for. Or maybe it’s just another lie we tell ourselves to make sense of the chaos.
But the thing about storms is that they pass, that’s the point. Maybe it’s about learning that sometimes the person you want most is the one you’re better off without. Because love shouldn’t be about guessing games and mixed signals. It should be clear and steady, like a compass pointing north. And if it isn’t, maybe it’s not love at all, just a storm that feels like one.
