I told him to come to Tiki’s. “Be with me,” I said, not as a question but as a demand. I wasn’t asking; I was telling. Because with him, that’s how it was—this pull I couldn’t resist, couldn’t fight, even when I should have.
And he came. He always did.
Tiki’s wasn’t special. It was just another dive bar in downtown Seattle, loud and sticky, filled with people who didn’t matter. It was where I worked, where I drank, where I let myself spiral on nights when everything felt too heavy. It was a mess, and so was I. But then, so was he. That’s what made it work—or maybe what made it impossible. Either way, that night wasn’t about the bar or the drinks or the crowd. It was about him.
He walked in like he owned the place. Like he owned me. That look, that cocky little smirk—it drove me crazy. I wanted to punch him and pull him closer at the same time. He didn’t have to say much; he never did. The energy between us said it all, this unspoken thing we’d been circling around for years.
We didn’t stay long. The second we were out the door, the night became ours. We wandered the streets like the city belonged to us, laughing at nothing, taking shots at every bar we passed, soaking up the chaos of each other. I clung to his arm, dizzy from the drinks, from him, from the way he made the whole world feel less heavy.
There’s a picture from that night. Me, grinning like I didn’t have a single care in the world. That kind of happiness didn’t come easy for me. It still doesn’t. The only other time I’ve felt anything close to it has been with my kids. That’s how fucking special he was to me.
But even in the middle of that joy, I felt the weight of it all. I knew he wasn’t mine—not fully, not in the way I wanted. I knew he was holding back, keeping part of himself just out of reach. And I hated him for it. I hated how much I wanted him, needed him, even though I knew he’d never give me everything.
He was my prison and my freedom all at once. He kept me trapped in this cycle of wanting and not having, of loving and losing, but I stayed because that’s what he does to you. He doesn’t just take up space in your life—he consumes it.
We ended up at a park, or maybe it was just some random stretch of grass that felt like a park after too many drinks. I laid back, staring at the sky, letting the cold air sober me up just enough to keep the world from spinning. He sat beside me, hands loose, gaze somewhere far away.
“You’re a fucking mess,” he said finally, smirking like it was the best compliment he’d ever given.
“So are you,” I shot back, grinning because it was true.
And that was us. Two disasters, somehow managing to make it work for a night. Maybe not forever, but for that night, we were enough.
It wasn’t about the future. We didn’t talk about where we were going or what we wanted. It was about the moment, about the high of being together, about the way he made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t since, well, ever.
But this isn’t a fairy tale. It’s not some neatly wrapped story where everything falls into place. It’s messy and real and sharp around the edges. And yeah, it hurts. It always did.
We wandered the streets like we owned them, but we both knew the truth. He wasn’t mine, not in the way I needed him to be. But that didn’t change the fact that he’s there. Always. In my head, in my heart, in every decision I make without even realizing it.
I don’t hold onto that night like some precious memory I’ll keep forever. I hold onto it because it’s us. Because it’s part of what makes this whole fucked-up thing between us real.
He’s not my story’s happy ending. He’s the truth buried in every mistake I’ve made since the day I met him. And maybe that’s what keeps me coming back to it. To him.
We’re not finished. Not yet. And even if we never are, I know one thing for sure—he’ll always be the part of me I can’t quite explain. The part I don’t even want to.
He’s the one I can’t quit. The one who ruined me for everyone else. To this day I let it burn. Because with him, it’s always fire and I’ve never been good at putting out the flames.
