I keep writing.
I told myself it wasn’t that bad because the chemistry was real. Because you wanted me too. Because somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking about the bet and started thinking about you.
None of that matters.
It doesn’t matter that I fell in love with you. It doesn’t matter that I meant it when I said it.
I built everything on a lie—and I let you trust me anyway.
You gave me things you’d protected.
Your firsts.
Your faith in your own judgment.
I took them without giving you the truth you deserved.
My hand shakes. I press harder.
I wanted to believe I was different from Reed, that breaking his nose made me the good guy. But I helpedbuild the world that taught him he could take what he wanted.
The jokes. The culture. The bet itself.
I made you a target before he ever touched you.
You said I had a silver tongue. You were right.
I learned how to perform early—how to say the right thing, be the right version of myself, get people to give me what I wanted.
And I used it on you.
I engineered proximity. I tilted every interaction in my favor. You never had the full information to choose freely.
That’s on me.
The worst part is that it was real. When I said I love you, I meant it. Which only makes it worse, because I let the woman I love trust a man who was lying.
When the truth came out, I watched you break and walk away, and I knew I’d destroyed the first real thing I’d ever had.
I don’t expect forgiveness.
I don’t expect another chance.
I don’t even expect you to believe me when I say I’m sorry.
But I am.
I’m sorry I made you a game.
I’m sorry I used you to prove my worth.
I’m sorry I poisoned something that could have been honest from the start.
I’m sorry your firsts were with someone like me.
My vision blurs. I blink hard and keep going.
Accountability isn’t the apology.
