He came back, but it wasn't the same. I mean, he was the same, but I wasn't.

I became insensitive to the poison of his words, to his touch that was once magical—same hands, same lips, but not the guy I imagined him to be.

A few months passed. I worked a lot on my fears and insecurities.

I knew when he came back something was different. I didn't listen to myself. This time it doesn't hurt that he left. I believe people can change, but sometimes they just get worse. I truly needed that perception of connection I had maintained for so many years. I closed the door—why did I open it?

He ended my hopes, my steady slope. He came with his story, the same tired words as always, the same hopeful bedroom eyes I always fell for.

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