He was the kind of man people wrote about without ever really knowing. Sexy in that effortless way, mysterious enough to make you fill in the blanks yourself. With him, love felt like something pulled straight out of storybooks—soft touches, lingering looks, words that wrapped around you just tightly enough to feel real.
But somehow, you were never real enough to him.
He never showed you off. Never let you step into his world. You existed in the in-between—private, hidden, contained. Whenever you asked for more, for something solid, something you could name, he’d smile that knowing smile and tell you he just wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Not yet turned into never.
He wanted everything a relationship could give him—the attention, the closeness, the way you looked at him like he was the only person who existed—but without the weight of calling it what it was. He wanted to want you. To crave you. To lust over you.
But love you? Truly, openly, fully?
That was never on the table.
Because you were just Wednesday.
Just the girl he saw on Wednesdays. Tucked neatly into the middle of his week, like a habit he never meant to break. It took you longer than you’d like to admit to realize there were other days. Other girls. A different version of you for every night he had to fill.
And when you found out, it cracked something open in you.
You yelled. You broke. You told him you were done, that you deserved more than being someone’s secret, someone’s option, someone’s middle-of-the-week escape.
And for a moment, you believed it.
But he had a way of pulling you back in.
He was intoxicating like that—something you knew was bad for you, something that burned going down but left you craving another hit anyway. He lived in your system, in your thoughts, in the quiet moments where your resolve was weakest.
He was gentle when you needed softness. Sweet in ways that made you forget every sharp edge. And then he’d flip—lively, wild, unpredictable—keeping you balanced on that thin line between chaos and comfort.
He kept you on your toes.
Years passed like that. From high school into adulthood, your lives stretching forward while somehow staying tangled in the same place. You’d leave. You’d come back. It moved in waves—distance, closeness, silence, heat.
But one thing never changed.
He never changed.
After all that time, after all the growing you did and all the chances you gave, he was still the same boy you met back then.
A fuck boy.
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