I love that you were mine

The thing about being a player is that it’s not just a game—it’s a lifestyle. And for as long as I could remember, I had been damn good at it. I wasn’t just any guy at the bar. I was the guy, the one women noticed, the one men either envied or hated, sometimes both. Tonight was no different. The club was packed, a haze of dim lights and pulsating bass. I sat at the bar, nursing my third whiskey. My tie hung loose around my neck, my shirt unbuttoned just enough to give off the right vibe: approachable, but still in control. I’d already caught the attention of a couple of women. They lingered nearby, pretending not to notice me while making sure I noticed them. It was a dance I knew all too well. Usually, I’d engage—throw them a charming smile, start a conversation that would lead exactly where I wanted it to. But tonight, I wasn’t in the mood. I tilted the glass in my hand, watching the whiskey swirl. It was a strange feeling, not wanting to play. Foreign, even. Maybe it was the cold edge to the night or the fact that the bar felt emptier than it was. Or maybe it was something else, something I didn’t want to name. The bartender refilled my glass without asking. He knew me well enough by now to skip the formalities. I muttered a quiet thanks, taking a sip and letting the alcohol warm me from the inside out. The truth was, something had been off lately. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was there—a dull ache that wouldn’t go away, no matter how much I drank or how many women I charmed. It lingered in the quiet moments, sneaking up on me when I least expected it. Like now. I exhaled slowly, leaning back in my seat. My phone buzzed on the counter, the screen lighting up with a name I didn’t care to see. Another woman I’d ghosted, probably. Or maybe one of the many who thought they could change me. I didn’t bother replying. Instead, I slid the phone into my pocket and glanced around the room. The club was alive, bodies moving in sync with the music. A group of friends laughed loudly near the corner, their energy contagious. I used to thrive in places like this, feeding off the chaos and attention. But tonight, it all felt... hollow. It wasn’t that I couldn’t keep up the act—I could. I had perfected it over the years. The cocky smirk, the smooth one-liners, the effortless confidence. It was all second nature to me now. But lately, I’d started to wonder: what was the point? I hated that thought. Hated that it kept creeping in, no matter how hard I tried to push it away. I downed the rest of my drink, signaling for another. The bartender obliged, and I lifted the glass to my lips, savoring the burn. There were moments—rare, fleeting moments—when I let myself think about it. About her. Not for long, never for long. But the thought still came, uninvited, like a shadow I couldn’t shake. It was stupid, really. I wasn’t the kind of guy who got hung up on anyone. I was Aaron Dante. Women were a dime a dozen, and I never stayed long enough for things to get complicated. But she had been different. I pushed the thought away, setting the glass down harder than I intended. No. I wasn’t going there. Not tonight. The club felt suffocating now, the music too loud, the crowd too close. I stood, tossing some cash onto the bar, and made my way outside. The cool night air hit me like a slap, sharp and sobering. I lit a cigarette, taking a long drag and letting the smoke curl around me. The street was quieter than usual, the city’s usual buzz muted under the weight of the hour. I leaned against the wall, watching the faint glow of streetlights flicker in the distance. My thoughts were a jumbled mess, the alcohol doing little to blur the edges. I hated this feeling—the restlessness, the vulnerability. It wasn’t who I was. At least, it wasn’t who I let anyone see. But out here, alone under the night sky, it was harder to pretend. I stayed there for a while, the cigarette burning down to the filter, before finally stubbing it out against the brick. The walk home was a blur, the familiar streets passing in a haze. When I finally made it to my apartment, I didn’t bother turning on the lights. The darkness felt easier, less demanding. I kicked off my shoes, shedding my jacket as I made my way to the bedroom. Collapsing onto the bed, I stared at the ceiling, my mind still racing. I tried to focus on anything else—work, the next meaningless hookup, the bottle of whiskey waiting in the kitchen—but it was no use. The thought came again, quiet but persistent: What if I never really moved on? I hated that thought. Hated how it lingered, refusing to leave. As sleep finally claimed me, the memory of her eyes—warm, piercing, unforgettable—flashed in my mind one last time. And for the first time in years, I didn’t fight it. *** The morning came like it always did—too early and too loud. My phone buzzed, dragging me out of a restless sleep. I groaned, shielding my eyes from the blinding daylight that filtered through the blinds. The remnants of last night’s whiskey still clung to my veins, making everything feel sluggish, like I was walking through fog. Another text. Another woman. I didn’t even check the name. I didn’t need to. I knew the drill. Hey, what happened to you last night? You left so suddenly! Miss you already. I snorted, tossing the phone back onto the bed. It was pathetic, really. They all were. Women in this city, they thought they could fix me, change me, make me into something I wasn’t. They saw the charm, the confidence, and they fell for it, hard and fast. But it was always the same. I let them in just enough, gave them just enough of what they wanted, and then I pulled away. Because that was the game, and I was a master at it. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, feeling the weight of my body settle into the stillness of the room. The quiet was suffocating, like it was waiting for me to do something with it, to make it loud and full again. But I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. I stood and walked into the kitchen, the cold tiles biting at my bare feet. The coffee pot was already brewing. My head was pounding. The kind of ache that only comes after a night of empty flirting and even emptier conversations. I grabbed the mug, filling it to the brim and taking a long, slow sip. The warmth spread through me, cutting through the haze of the night before. I leaned against the counter, staring out the window, watching the world go by as if I wasn’t a part of it. As if nothing could touch me. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t true. I had let myself believe that I could keep everything at arm's length, that I could stay in control forever. I had built this wall around myself so high and so thick that I thought nothing could get through it. I thought no one could make me feel vulnerable again. I was wrong. It wasn’t like me to get caught up in thoughts like this, to linger on past mistakes. But something about last night—about that feeling I couldn’t quite shake—kept gnawing at me. It was a slow burn, and I didn’t like it. I hated it. The coffee tasted bitter as I drained the cup, my mind drifting to places I didn’t want to go. Places I hadn’t been in years. --- I could feel the pull of the club from the night before, that same energy I was always chasing, always trying to outrun. So, I grabbed my jacket and left the apartment, hoping the cold air would clear my head, or at least numb whatever was starting to creep into my chest. The city was bustling, just like it always was. People walked by, lost in their own worlds. Some were laughing, some were talking on the phone, others just trying to make it through the day. And there I was, trying to outrun my thoughts with every step. I ended up at the same coffee shop I always did, the one on the corner that had just the right amount of quiet. The kind of place where I could sit by the window and pretend I was normal, like everyone else. I sat at the usual table, waiting for the barista to make my coffee, tapping my fingers absently on the wooden surface. I let my eyes wander to the people around me—couples on dates, friends catching up, mothers with their children. For a moment, I wondered what it would be like to have that kind of peace in my life. To not always be searching for something, someone. To just... be. The thought was fleeting. I shook my head, trying to clear it. I wasn’t that guy. I wasn’t the guy who looked for meaning in places like this. I was Aaron Dante. Women fell for me. I never stayed long enough to let anyone get too close. Except, maybe once. --- The coffee arrived, and I took it without thinking, letting the warmth seep into my palms. As I lifted it to my lips, the door opened, and in walked a figure that immediately caught my attention. She didn’t look my way, didn’t even seem to notice me. She was on the phone, speaking in a low, urgent voice, and I watched her from the corner of my eye as she moved to the counter to order. She had this aura, this quiet confidence that instantly stood out. The way she carried herself—effortless, but strong. There was something about her. Something that made me feel like I’d seen her before, though I knew I hadn’t. I couldn’t help but study her, and for a moment, the world around me seemed to fade into the background. She had these long, dark locks of hair, eyes that seemed to hold stories, and a posture that told you she didn’t take s**t from anyone. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt like this, so completely caught off guard by someone. Usually, I was the one making women look twice, the one in control. But there was something about her that made me feel... uncertain. She turned, phone still pressed to her ear, and that’s when our eyes met. For a split second, I thought I saw something flicker in her expression—something unreadable, a hint of recognition, or maybe just indifference. But then she looked away, back to whatever conversation she was having. And just like that, I was left standing there, unsure of what had just happened. I took a sip of my coffee, trying to shake the feeling off. It’s nothing, Aaron. Get a grip. But even as I told myself that, I couldn’t ignore the odd sense of... something. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. *** The rest of the day passed in a blur. I kept busy, buried myself in work, in distractions. But every now and then, her face would flash in my mind. I hated it. I hated how she managed to linger, how she’d gotten under my skin without even trying. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to me. And yet, as the day wore on, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.