Toxic love

The first time Zariah saw Ke’shawn, he was leaning against the corner store wall like the world owed him something. His hoodie was pulled low, shadowing his eyes, but she could still feel them—watching, measuring, guarded. He didn’t smile when their eyes met. He didn’t look away either. And for some reason, that was enough to pull her in. Zariah wasn’t the type to chase attention. She had learned early that people came and went, promises broke, and feelings—no matter how real—could turn into weapons. So she kept her circle small, her heart smaller. But something about Ke’shawn felt familiar. Not safe. Not soft. Just… familiar. Like recognizing a scar on someone else that matched your own. Their first conversation wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even friendly. “You always stare at people like that?” she asked, crossing her arms. He shrugged. “You always ask questions you don’t want answers to?” She should’ve walked away. Instead, she smirked. That was the beginning. ⸻ They started seeing each other everywhere after that. At the bus stop. Outside school. By the basketball court where Ke’shawn spent most evenings playing until his knuckles were scraped and his breathing turned ragged. Zariah told herself it was coincidence. He told himself he didn’t care. Both were lying. Ke’shawn didn’t do attachments. Attachments meant expectations, and expectations meant disappointment. He had watched his mother cry over men who promised forever and delivered absence. He had learned that love was just another word people used when they wanted something. But Zariah didn’t want anything from him. She didn’t ask where he’d been. Didn’t press when he went quiet. Didn’t flinch at his rough edges. She just stayed. And that terrified him more than anything. ⸻ Their first real moment happened on a night that smelled like rain and asphalt. Zariah was sitting on the curb outside her apartment, hugging her knees, staring at nothing. Ke’shawn almost kept walking. He told himself her sadness wasn’t his problem. But his feet stopped anyway. “You good?” he asked, voice rough. She laughed softly, the sound hollow. “Do I look good?” He didn’t answer. He sat beside her instead, leaving just enough space between them to pretend it didn’t matter. Minutes passed. Cars drove by. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. “My mom says I feel too much,” Zariah said finally. “Like it’s a bad thing.” Ke’shawn picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Feeling too much just means people know how to hurt you.” She turned to him then, really looking at him. “Who hurt you?” He stood up immediately. “Don’t do that.” “Do what?” “Act like you care.” The words landed heavier than he intended. Zariah’s face hardened, her walls snapping back into place. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Wouldn’t want that.” He walked away, jaw tight, ignoring the twist in his chest. He told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. Safer. But that night, neither of them slept. ⸻ The next day, he found her at the basketball court. She was sitting on the bleachers, earbuds in, pretending to scroll through her phone. Pretending not to notice him. Pretending not to care. He hated that she was good at it. “Why you here?” he asked, spinning the ball in his hands. She didn’t look up. “Public court.” He exhaled sharply. “You mad.” She shrugged. “You don’t like when people act like they care. So I stopped.” That hit harder than any punch he’d taken. Ke’shawn wasn’t good with apologies. He wasn’t good with feelings. But he was worse at watching someone walk away without trying to stop them. “I ain’t say I didn’t want you to care,” he muttered. She finally looked at him. “You kinda did.” Silence stretched between them, thick with everything neither of them knew how to say. Then he tossed her the ball. She fumbled it, surprised. “I don’t play.” “Everybody plays,” he said. “Just gotta learn.” That was the closest thing to an apology he knew how to give. She stayed. ⸻ Days turned into weeks, and somewhere between late-night conversations and shared fries from the corner store, they became something more than strangers. Not quite friends. Definitely not lovers. Something in between. Ke’shawn started waiting for her without admitting it. Zariah started smiling more without realizing it. They learned each other’s silences—the difference between quiet that meant peace and quiet that meant pain. But beneath the surface, their wounds were still there, unhealed and sharp. And wounds, when ignored, don’t disappear. They fester. ⸻ The first crack appeared the night Ke’shawn didn’t show up. He had promised—though he would never use that word—that he’d meet her at the court. Zariah waited for an hour, then two. The streetlights flickered on. Her phone stayed silent. By the time she walked home, her chest felt hollow. She told herself she didn’t care. That she wasn’t surprised. That people always left. Still, she checked her phone three times before going to sleep. He texted at 2:13 a.m. my bad Two words. No explanation. Zariah stared at the screen until her vision blurred. She typed: It’s fine. It wasn’t. ⸻ Ke’shawn didn’t explain because explaining meant admitting he’d been at his cousin’s house, breaking up a fight that turned bloody. It meant admitting his life was chaos he didn’t want her near. It meant caring enough to think she deserved the truth. And caring was dangerous. So he kept it simple. Distant. But when he saw her the next day, something had changed. She still smiled. Still joked. Still sat beside him on the bleachers. But there was space now. Invisible, but undeniable. He hated it. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. She raised an eyebrow. “Nothing.” “You different.” She shrugged. “Maybe I’m just acting like you.” The words stung because they were true. ⸻ Their fights didn’t start as shouting matches. They started as small cuts—sarcastic comments, missed calls, unspoken expectations. Neither of them knew how to ask for what they needed. Neither knew how to admit they were afraid. So they hurt each other instead. Not on purpose. But damage doesn’t care about intent. ⸻ One evening, as the sky bled into shades of purple and gold, Zariah found herself laughing at something Ke’shawn said. Real laughter. The kind that made her forget to be guarded. He watched her, something soft flickering in his eyes. “You look better like that,” he said. “Like what?” “Happy.” Her smile faded slightly. “That doesn’t last.” He hesitated, then said, “Maybe it could.” For a moment, she believed him. That was the problem. ⸻ Because love—real love—should feel safe. What they were building felt like standing in the path of a storm, convincing themselves the thunder was just noise and the lightning wouldn’t strike twice. But storms don’t care about denial. And neither does pain.