Kay Dalton

‚Not a love story?‘ It wasn’t love. That’s the first thing we agreed on. No labels. No expectations. No promises whispered in the dark. Just late nights, shared cigarettes, and the way his hand always found my lower back like it belonged there. We never asked each other where this was going. Because asking would’ve meant wanting an answer. And wanting an answer would’ve meant caring too much. He’d text at 2:13 a.m. “You awake?” I always was. And he knew that. Some nights we talked until the sun came up. About childhood memories, regrets we never said out loud, people we almost loved. Other nights, we didn’t talk at all. Just breathing. Just skin. Just the quiet understanding that this was temporary. The dangerous part wasn’t that we were close. It was that we acted like we weren’t. We saw other people. Or at least pretended we did. But every time someone else touched me, I wondered if he’d notice the difference. Every time he pulled away, I wondered if he was trying to protect himself — or me. The last night was ordinary. That’s what hurts the most. No fight. No confession. No dramatic goodbye. Just him standing in my doorway, jacket already on, saying: “This was fun.” I nodded. Because situationships don’t end. They just stop happening. And sometimes… that’s worse. (29, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)