A diary romance of addictive non-love
tangled in the space between
almost and never.
Monday, September 12, 2018
“Roads Untraveled” by Linkin Park floored me.
I screenshotted the lyrics, thinking I might show them to you, even though I’d never say the words out loud. I wasn’t good at honest emotions. Still, I read the lyrics over and over.
It was true, this crack-cocaine-like “non-love” we had going on most definitely wasn’t worth what it cost. But one day, would I really be glad it was gone?
I couldn’t fathom being okay, never mind happy to lose you, despite all the damage you were currently doing to my heart.
I took a breath as I scribbled down some notes, trying to build up the nerve to tell you how I really felt:
You don’t make me feel beautiful.
You don’t ask about me.
You don’t act like a boyfriend. I want a fucking boyfriend.
I didn’t care that we couldn’t be forever. This time around, I’d made it clear that I needed an emotional connection—and you weren’t delivering.
And yet, I still wanted you. Instinctively. Stupidly. I wanted you to hold me, even when you made me feel hollow.
I couldn’t explain how the obsession had started or why. But it was here now—consuming me. And I couldn’t make my feelings go away.
Then you called.
“Fucker,” I muttered. It was 8:20 p.m. You’d said 7:30–8ish, but I knew that meant 8:30.
We hadn’t seen each other in weeks—not since that wild night at the sex club and Airbnb. You’d been in Chicago, totally off the grid.
“Hey,” you said when I picked up. “I’m running late.”
Your voice undid me. Just like that.
Shit. I love you.
You had a quick stop—for weed—then you’d come get me.
I was at Second Cup, tired and cold, editing a chapter from the dating book I was writing. Not coincidentally, it was about how to leave emotionally disruptive men.
At 8:40, you pulled up in your grey Toyota. I’d swapped my conservative office blouse for something tighter. More suggestive. Too much effort for someone who couldn’t show up on time.
I opened the door and met your gaze—molten brown, like burnt sugar, that narrow black goatee you wore like a signature, sharpening your features. Your hair was a dark mess of half-waves, wild in that curated way. You bent over the wheel, wiry and electric. I hated how much I needed you.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Yeah.” I dropped my bag at my feet. No smile. No warmth.
“Well, hi.” There was a flicker in your eyes. You leaned in. I gave a quick kiss, but frustration outweighed desire.
You surprised me by asking about me for once, instead of launching into a story starring you in Chicago.
“I was writing,” I said, cautious.
“What were your characters doing today?” Your voice softened, almost like you cared.
“It’s nonfiction. I’m juggling two manuscripts.”
“Oh? What’s this one about?”
“The psychology of dating.”
“How so?”
“It’s not the cliché stuff, like what to wear on a first date. It’s more about the inner stuff. About you.”
“Me?” Your eyebrows lifted, and something like fear flashed through your gaze.
“Not you—you. The reader.”
“Oh.” You smirked. “Mind you, I would make a very good subject.”
More than you knew.
You told me your day had been packed—working on your second Master’s, your job, meetings on the side.
“Which went over, as you can see,” you added. That was your version of an apology.
“What kind of meetings?”
“I’m trying to get into digital marketing. Only have one contract so far. I’m building.”
We passed a giant Asian market, and your eyes lit up.
“Ever been there? They have great veggies.”
I shook my head. “I’d avoid the meat.”
“Same. Maybe the fish. But I don’t eat much fish.”
“I can’t stand it,” I said. “Too fishy.”
You laughed. “Like beer tasting too much like beer?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t bring beer. I’ve got rum.”
“Got any juice?”
“No. Want some?”
“Yes.” I smiled. “To the Superstore!”
Inside, you held my hand while I grabbed tropical juice. You didn’t pick up vegetables after all, but you did wrap your arm around me as we waited in the mile-long checkout line.
“I’m only using you for heat,” you teased.
“I’m using you, too.”
And I didn’t mind. Not right then. Talking felt good. Watching you move through the world felt good. I wish you’d slip your arm around me like that more often, do little things to show me you cared, that you wanted me to be yours.
Even though I wasn’t.
Even though I could never be.
We arrived at Cherry Beach quickly. You stayed in the car a while, rolling your joint. We walked past a campfire where a small group played drums, laughter rising with the smoke.
Your eyes gleamed. “At any other time, I’d join them. At any other time.”
I sighed. Why did everything seem to fascinate you more than I did? Except for when we were naked and getting kinky. That fascinated you plenty.
“I can tell.” My tone may have been a wee bit resentful. But this was our date. No drum circles for you tonight.
We laid down our blankets on the far side of the beach. I gave you gum to kill the weed taste. I never even knew you smoked weed before. Now you seemed to do it all the time. Maybe you finally felt comfortable enough to open up to me, at least in that small way.
You produced two plastic champagne glasses and poured us Malibu cocktails.
Malibu brought back memories of other drunken summer nights with you, making out in your car, under the stars. Anticipation sizzled in my chest.
“Cheers.”
I clinked mine to yours as we snuggled up. Your arm circled my waist. The lake lapped softly. Stars winked above us. My head nestled into your shoulder.
You were here. With me. You were the person I wanted, the one who made me smile, who gave life texture and color—even if you also made me feel invisible the second we parted.
But we were unofficially back “on” now. Maybe we’d have more meetups. Maybe you’d actually try, like you said you would.
We drank. We kissed. You lay me down, facing you, arms around each other. I straddled your leg and gazed into your eyes.
“We are not falling in love,” you said, wistfully.
“What? I didn’t say that.”
Translation: we’re already falling.
I should have asked you what you meant. Was I really that important to you? Was that why you were still so guarded, lest we lost ourselves completely in each other?
You pulled me close and kissed my hair, and I beamed, high on you.
Time always flew when we made out. I could have spent years wrapped up in your arms and not even realized it.
“Drink break,” you announced, pulling out more liquor—vodka, I guessed. I was already drunk enough, but Drunk Ellie always wanted more, and you were quick to refill.
“I brought a few of the instruments from last time,” you said carefully, watching my reaction. “The chain and plug.”
Dog collar and chain. Butt plug.
I smirked. “Hmm, we’ll see… What did you have in mind?”
“I’d put it on you and make you walk on your hands and knees.”
A thrill fluttered through me.
“And then you’d suck my dick.”
I laughed. You still underestimated me.
We talked constellations. Then you brought up philosophy.
“But we can’t talk about religion,” you added with a smirk. “That’s the one thing we can’t talk about.”
“My friend Nina and I are like that with The Hunger Games,” I said. “We can’t agree.”
“The Hunger Games? What don’t you agree on?”
“Gale vs. Peeta. And the ending. There was no hope. Harry Potter was sad too, but good still won out over evil.”
“You mean love triumphed over hate.”
I shrugged. “Same deal.”
“They’re actually very different.”
“Not to me.”
“So, you don’t like dark reality.”
“No, I do. It just has to be well-written. There was this WWII book I read that was really dark but—”
Your eyes dropped to my chest. “I just noticed your top.”
“Just now, eh?”
I knew you would never remember what I’d started to say before. You were too distracted by me. Or maybe you were too distracted in general to pay attention for real.
You leaned in, slow and warm. We kissed—tongues dancing, heat rising. My hands twined around your neck, fingers threading through your dark hair. Your hands slipped under my shirt, up my skirt, and I melted against you.
I put the drink down, undid your belt, and slid my hand inside while your fingers worked magic between my legs. I moaned, grinding against you.
You pulled me into your lap. One hand cupped my breast, the other moved lower. Your mouth found my neck. I twitched and pulsed, breathless.
Just when it was almost too much, you’d stop—smirking.
You did that five, maybe six times. I was soaked and aching.
“I like playing with your clit,” you said.
“Mmm,” I whispered. So did I.
“I’d like it even more with my dick inside.”
Nope. My rule. We weren’t exclusive. I couldn’t give you my first time—not when you’d leave my texts hanging for hours. Sometimes even days.
Now I faced you, on my knees. I reached into your pants as we kissed, trailing my lips down your neck.
“If we could have sex,” you murmured, “we’d go all night.”
Oh, yes.
You lay me back against your knee, fingers circling again. I watched your face watching me, saw the satisfaction you took in my pleasure. That turned me on even more.
If only you cared this much when I wasn’t half-naked.
We rested, tangled together.
“What’re you thinking?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just looking.” You tilted your head to the stars. “You?”
“The collar.”
You perked up. “Mmm. What about it?”
“You could put it on me. Use doggy commands like, sit, lie down, roll over. Then do whatever you wanted.”
Your smile was wicked.
“Within bounds,” I added. “And then at some point, I could suck your dick.”
You pulled me close. I leaned into your chest while your hands cupped my breasts—slow and sure. I watched them move. Completely transfixed.
“I like when you touch it,” I said. It felt too intimate to say to say, when you touch me.
Your eyes glowed. “I like that you like watching me touch it.”
You didn’t correct me.
At Paradise, the sex club, you’d watched the other couples while we made out.
I hadn’t noticed anyone else. Only you.
Now, you circled my breasts in your palms, pushed them together. My stomach dipped.
We lay back in each other’s arms. I never wanted you to stop. You kissed along my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.
But it was late. Cold. The mosquitos were out. You were congested—not dying, you said—just triggered by Chicago. Asthma. And maybe all the drinking and lack of sleep.
We packed up, hand in hand. Swans floated across the dark lake. The drum circle had quieted. In the parking lot, a fancy car blasted music.
“Always a party here,” I said.
Then we drove toward my place.
“So, tell me about Chicago,” I offered, knowing you were waiting for the chance.
You launched in—cockroaches, canceled reservations, wandering the streets all night. The weed run at 3 a.m., fourteen floors up in a creepy apartment full of empty beer bottles. You’d thought you were going to die. You sprinted out with Andre like it was a horror movie.
I laughed.
Stupid boys.
“I’m glad you’re alive.”
We arrived at my block, circled for a dark spot.
“Back?” you asked.
“Mhm.”
We climbed into the back seat. You pulled off my panties and top.
“Wait, I have music.” I leaned into the front for my bag. You bit my ass playfully. I squealed and cued up a playlist.
We kissed. You tasted like me. We were sweaty, not fresh. I didn’t care.
You lay me down. Started to 69 me. I moaned while reaching for the condom behind you.
I rolled it on, then took you in my mouth. You licked me again—slow, insistent.
When I got up to change my playlist (Drop Hot Sex Songs), you shifted to sit up, eyes jumping from my face to your cock.
“Mouth,” you said, gaze dark.
I smirked, dropping to my knees. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
I kissed down your chest, teasing.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” You were breathless.
I began to suck. You held my hair and guided my rhythm—faster, then slower.
Like my heart.
Like this fucked up, irresistible situationship.
disclaimer
this isn’t a construed
fictional story
with a beginning,
middle and
ending
it’s the unabridged
version of my
love life
no creative
interpretations,
no editing
the reason
i just want to
share my experiences,
what i went through
because not all
bad boys
become
good guys
not everyone that you
love
will love
you
head games
as i learned
the hard way,
your mind often doesn’t
tell you the truth,
confusing
obsession for
he must be the one
thinking you
can’t live
without
him
so you accept
his questionable
behaviour as
“good enough”
it’s not love, love
spoiler:
it isn’t good enough,
but you’re enough
i want you to know that,
that you don’t
need his
non-love
and i’ve penned my story
so that maybe
you’ll feel less
alone
if you’re stuck
if you’re going
through something
similar,
if you’ve made
unstable people
your home
if your heart
and mind
are at war,
if your existence
consists of
treacherous highs
and lows
if you don’t know
where the hell
to go,
if you can’t stop,
but you know
that you can’t
keep going,
it’s not over
if you think that
you love
him
but you’ve
never felt so
miserable,
if it’s poisoning
your soul
but you still can’t
let go
i get you
i’m here for you
and i promise you
there’s hope
Free on Kindle Unlimited. Read it HERE.
Prologue:
Part I: Simmer
3 years earlier…
Friday, February 20, 2015
It was my first time at The Lodge, a second-story ballroom with chandeliers and smooth, dark wood floors. The place was packed and so warm that my ponytail had started to frizz, and my suede heels kept sticking to the floor.
I was trying to have a good time at Alma Dance Academy’s Valentine’s Day Bash, but part of me was still searching—for the mystery crush I’d met over a year ago, the tall, nameless Colombian from my first night at a Latin club with my university salsa group.
Since then, I’d become a regular. I knew the faces, the DJs, the floor patterns. But not his. He’d only danced with me a few times, just enough to linger in my memory. He’d even asked me out.
But he was thirty-four, I was twenty-two, and something about his slick charm had set off quiet alarms. So, I’d declined, and then he vanished. No more perfect turns, no more heaven-in-my-arms dips. Salsa didn’t feel the same without him.
My heart lifted when I spotted Tim, my new crush—bright blue eyes, floppy brown hair hiding a bald spot, at least fifteen years older than me, but if he were younger, he’d be just my type.
Salsa, and now bachata, had lit a fire in me. When I was spinning across the floor, in sync with a partner—often a stranger—I felt something I’d never known before: calm and thrill, peace and pleasure. It was a high I couldn’t quit.
At midnight, the performances began. Alvin and I cheered on our friends from church as they took the floor with their teams, owning the space.
Then came the Valentine’s Day competition. Each couple got a little plastic heart they had to keep pressed between their chests while dancing. I might have joined if Tim had asked, but he was standing with a tall girl in a black dress. No one else caught my interest enough to brave the floor.
Dev wasn’t there—my former salsa pseudo-mentor who’d tried to blur the line between partner and date. I was relieved. I’d grown tired of dodging his “accidental” closeness, tired of the expectation stitched into our dances. Lately, we barely danced at all. I’d branched out.
I stood near the sidelines with Emil, one of my Good Goods—my name for the dancers I trusted. Comfortable, safe, a solid lead. Emil’s eyes kept flicking to mine, heat sparking underneath. I knew those eyes well. I-want-you eyes. I could spot them instantly now.
The Latin scene was mostly respectful. Even if guys wanted something, they didn’t push, and a polite “no” usually worked. Dance came first. This wasn’t some grindy club, no matter how terrified Mom and Dad still seemed about the fact that I was out dancing three nights a week.
“Who do you think is going to win?” I asked Emil, glancing toward the couples at the front of the room.
“I don’t know. Who do you think?”
That was when I saw you. Red collared shirt, shoulders slightly hunched, brown skin, dark curls coiled just enough to be intentional—neither wild nor tamed—eyes closed, a sliver of perfectly edged beard framing your mouth, hinting at both discipline and hidden depths.
Your chest was against hers, and you held her gently, guiding. Your style wasn’t flashy, but it was intimate. Protective.
I’d seen you before at the Westwood House for Sabor Sundays. We’d danced various times, though I couldn’t remember your name. I wasn’t sure where you were from since we’d never spoken—I’d only ever heard that warm “thank you” at the end of our dances.
“The guy in the red shirt and his partner,” I said, motioning toward you. It didn’t matter that you weren’t the tallest nor most handsome in the room. You had a way of moving that held feeling and soul. You took care of your partner. I could feel it.
Emil simply nodded as the first round began. Plastic hearts clattered to the ground as couple after couple were eliminated. As fewer remained, the crowd got louder, and the moves got flashier. Now the dancers didn’t just have to keep the hearts between them—they had to impress the judges, too.
But you and your partner seemed to be in your own world. Arms around each other, heads bent close. The bachata was romantic, and you moved like magic in that four-step, side-to-side rhythm. You spun together. You pulsed together. It was simple, but it was fire.
Five couples left. Then three. The pair next to you attempted a body roll, and their heart fell to the floor. You never looked up, never lost focus. Your attention was all on her.
“They have a chance,” Emil said, inching closer. We’d already danced, and while he had skill, I could feel what he wanted.
I didn’t reply. I was lost in the contest—lost in you.
Then it was down to two couples. You kept it close. Gentle. Like little heartbeats.
The last heart hit the floor—and it wasn’t yours.
The judges announced you and your partner as the winners. Fifty dollars each, and three months of free entry to Alma Dance Academy. She hugged you. You wiped the back of your neck with a white handkerchief from your back pocket.
And then the music came back on, and we all danced.
Tim came over, and I smiled. The man could’ve used a fashion makeover, but I was still happy to be in his arms. His frame was solid, his timing perfect, but it was his energy that pulled me in.
I danced with strangers, with my favourites, with my friends from church.
As a song ended, I looked up and saw you. Your eyes twinkled as you held out your hand.
“Dance?”
I nodded and gave you my hand.
It was salsa—fast and playful. You led me through the turns and steps, back and forth, sharper and quicker than bachata, feet flickering like firecrackers. Your presence wasn’t loud—it was anchoring.
The music raced, but you made time slow down when you touched my waist. Like every great lead before, you carried us someplace else—a perfect world spun from rhythm and sunlight, where each turn felt like falling into freedom.
This wasn’t the kind of dance that made my pulse race. It was the kind that let my shoulders drop, that put a smile on my face without me realizing it. Your touch was light, but I never doubted it would catch me if I faltered.
The music shifted into bachata, and we hugged, about to part.
“One more?” you asked.
“Yes.”
Last year, when I’d first started dancing, I’d kept my partners at arm’s length. This year, I’d fallen in love with bachata. I let my Good Goods—and strangers—dance close. Not in a sexual way. In an artistic way. Sensual. We moved as one. It was respect, connection, and ecstasy, wrapped up in catchy beats and sultry vibes.
Bachata was a new language my soul was learning to speak. The closeness of the dance unlocked a wild freedom in me I’d never felt before. I could be myself here and not be judged. I could be close to a man without fearing I was giving my heart to the wrong person.
You danced closer than others had, but I liked it. Our timing clicked like we’d always been dancing. You guided with ease, every step clear, your energy calm and sure.
You brought us back to closed hold after a turn, and I wrapped my arms around your neck, my fingers brushing the soft curls at your collar. Our bodies conversed in silent rhythm, flowing as a single entity. For a moment, there was no music, no ballroom—just the thrum of your pulse against mine, steady and unspoken.
As one song breathed into the next, you tightened your grip, giving me a quick hug.
“It’s Ellie, right?” you asked.
I was surprised you’d remembered.
“Yes.” I pulled back and met your gaze, soft and shadowed, like firelight through smoke.
Only my family ever called me Eleanor.
“Sam.”
I smiled. “Thanks for the dances. And congrats on winning the competition.”
You smirked. “I’ll catch you later.”
And then you were gone—lost in the sea of dancers.
And I was still smiling.
Friday, July 10, 2015
i’d seen you
around,
we’d danced,
you were fun
but i was still
missing Salsa Guy,
my nameless
Colombian,
still crushing
on Tim, then
Josh—
tall, blond, goofy,
called my gaze
“sexy,”
never asked me out
did i just want
someone
to love?
was i rebound-
crushing
to forget him?
maybe…
i wasted away
over someone
more often
than not
it might be wrong,
but i never
knew
how
to stop
Free on Kindle Unlimited. Read it HERE.