The thing about me and him? Fate has a sick sense of humor.
One of us is always “finally” available when the other isn’t —
like the universe is standing in the corner, sipping coffee, and going, “Nah, not today.”
It’s not just bad timing.
It’s Olympic-level bad timing.
And sure, I could romanticize it —
call it a red thread, cosmic pull, blah blah blah.
Or maybe it’s just sexual tension with a nicotine addiction.
It just won’t quit.
Our pattern’s a cliché at this point:
Round 1 — fireworks.
Round 2 — ghost town.
I suspect he retreats because I’m too intense for his “let’s just keep it casual” energy —
which is hilarious, considering he’s also the guy who once suggested we get married.
To each other.
Commitment-phobic… but make it contradictory.
I pull back because I know how this story ends:
Me catching feelings,
him catching the nearest exit.
On paper, we look compatible.
In bed? We’re dangerous.
In reality? We’d probably trigger an evacuation order.
We’re not soulmates.
We’re a controlled hazard —
a spark that was never supposed to start a fire,
but somehow always finds the gasoline
and then pretends to be surprised when everything’s burning.