He told me from the beginning.
That's the part that haunts me sometimes, the fact that he didn't lie.
He said he didn't want a relationship. Said he was independent. He laid it all out like a disclaimer on the back of a pill bottle, and I took it anyway, thinking it won't affect me.
But it did.
It started with little things.
Like how he never texted first in the mornings.
I told myself he wasn't a "good morning text" kind of guy.
Like how he never posted me, not even a shadow, not even a hand.
I told myself he was private, not secretive.
Like how he'd flinch, even jokingly, when I called him "mine."
I told myself labels made him uncomfortable.
Like how he never planned anything, no date nights, no check-ins.
I told myself he was just spontaneous.
I made excuses for all of it.
Over and over. Quietly. Proudly. Like I was being emotionally mature for "understanding" a man who wasn't trying to be understood.
Like bending into his world made me closer to him.
One night, I was sitting at the edge of his bed, in his T-shirt, hair tied up, legs curled under me. He'd just made shawarma in the kitchen, a real effort. The way he asked how much pepper I wanted, handed me a cold bottle of Juice, wiped his hands on a napkin, and said, "Taste that and tell me I'm not a chef."
It wasn't fancy, but it felt like love.
Felt like he saw me.
We ate in bed and watched something random on YouTube, clips of people skateboarding in New York, some funny vlogs neither of us paid attention to.
I just remember how safe I felt. For a second, it felt like we were... something. Like more.
I looked at him, smiling. "You know you like me, right?"
He was lying back, arms behind his head, scrolling through his phone.
He paused, blinked, then looked at me like I'd asked if the earth was flat.
"I like you... But not like that," he said casually. "Don't overthink it."
I didn't say anything. I just nodded and looked away.
Inside, it felt like I'd swallowed hot water.
Burning and heavy.
He didn't see me shrink. Didn't notice the way my hand stopped mid-air.
Didn't hear the silence that followed.
I still stayed the night.
The red flags weren't red at first.
They were beige. Soft. Muted.
The kind that blend into the background of a casual situationship, until one day, you look around and realize you've been living in warning signs.
Nia saw it first.
"He's doing just enough to keep you close, but never enough to keep you safe," she said one night, while she braided her hair and watched me get dressed to go to his place. "Have you ever thought about that?"
"I don't want to fight," I mumbled.
"You're not fighting. You're folding."
I laughed it off at the time. Put on lip gloss. Picked earrings. Told myself she didn't understand.
But even as I said that, I remember telling myself: She is right.