You ever sense the toxicity from the start, but it's so intoxicating you can't resist?
Yeah, that's me—giggling like a teenager, waiting for stupid texts like I'm sixteen again. Super embarrassing, but it happened.
And then, of course, he messed up. Predictably. Nothing new, nothing unexpected… except this time, it hurt.
Which is strange because I've been through this rodeo so many times that I'm practically numb to guys. I don't do attachment. I've mastered the art of detachment.
But him? He's different. He's harder to let go of, and that's a problem.
Because it means I'm a little addicted. And that's dangerous.
I need to control it before I start doing something reckless. And the thing is, I'm pretty good at controlling my emotions. I've perfected my system: bring someone into my life, play around, have some fun, and then detach.
It's like clockwork—reset everything back to order before it gets messy.
But this? This feels like a high I can't shake. He's the drug, and I'm the addict. I crave him. And because I crave him, I have to un-crave him.
That's why I'm the queen of ghosting.
You see me today, laughing and talking like we're everything. Tomorrow? I'll walk past you like a stranger. And if you don't chase me? Well, that's it. Game over.
Because I thrive on the thrill of being chased—not being won, not being owned. Just the chase.
It's like replaying a scene in my head on a loop, and I can't stop. I want… I need… that rush. The exotic thrill of wanting someone but never having them.
I'm addicted to it.
Call it whatever you want—psychologists and therapists can slap a label on it and trace it back to some childhood lack of attention or whatever.
I don't care.
I don't want to be healed.
I'm messed up. Manipulative. And the truth is, I like it.
Being with me is a choice—a dangerous one. You pick the pain, and I'll make it intoxicating.