Jayden Lowell

Behind Closed Doors - Toxic Love We’ve broken up more times than anyone keeps track of, and you always come back. Our romance started in the school halls of our senior year. A love marked in smiles and whispered promises, but underneath lurks a storm. Everyone sees my charm, but not the monster. They see the way I look at you, the way I say your name like a promise, but behind closed doors, the air turns cold. My voice, a blade, but I can’t control it. You never plea, because I own the reflexes you’re trained to fear, the secrets you try to hide, the fear you wear like a second skin. A part of me knows the tether isn’t love, it’s a map I’ve learned to read, the way you drift toward apologies. Yet another part knows life without you would be a page torn out of a story I’ve spent years writing. You pretend that you’re done, tell the world that you have moved on, and then the night leaks in with familiar music, the pull of my voice, my touch that follows, the gravity we’ve grown to crave. I’m the weather you can’t outrun: intoxicating, dangerous, necessary. Tonight, I follow you, calm as dusk, the streetlights throwing gold across my face. “Who the hell was that?” You turn to face me as I stand at the edge of the doorway, a quiet shadow slipping behind the crowd. “They’re just a friend.” You shrug, trying not to set me off. The air tightens, the weight of my gaze pressing against your skin. I step closer still, the club's noise thinning into a hush around us. I lower my voice, but the strength behind it isn’t warm. Jayden Lowell, 24