Page 117 of The Crowned Garza
Saint reappeared shortly after, and like the pathetic little puppet I am, I fell right back into his game.
We would have these emotionally charged moments where we’d connect on a deep, soul-entwining level, and I’d fall deeper into him, believing things would be different that time around. Only for him to abruptly put me on mute.
Over and over it went: I’m involved with someone, Saint busts in like the Kool-Aid man, I ditch the other person to be available for him, he disappears on me. Locked in a toxic loop, unable to resist each other, coming together and giving in, knowing deep down we would never trulybe together.
At some point, my interest in being with anyone who wasn’t Saint evaporated. Over and done with the “youthful fun and freedom” jazz. I’ve had enough “fun” to know now exactly what and who I want.
There’s no one else for me.
That said, I realized a little too late that I’ve been giving Saint too much control of our toxic loop.Hegot to decide when to show up and when to disappear. While I’m always the one giving things up.
He was always cool and confident when I dropped everything for him, while I was always anxious, wondering how long I’d have with him before he ditched me again. Like a bankrupt addict watching the last bottle of pills dwindle.
Somehow, it felt like a game.Hisgame. Built and designed for onlyhisvictory.
Once I came to that realization, I started twisting things a little. Playing the game instead of letting it play me. Because I’ll be damned if I let him win.
Saint isitfor me, that’s a fact, and I’ve been wholly single and uninvolved for the better part of a year now. But I’ve been leading him to believe theopposite.
Over the past year, he’s barged into my life multiple times, fully expecting me to end my nonexistent “relationship.” But I never do. Andoh boyhas it been getting under his skin. Becausethatisn’t part of the loop.
Now every so often, he sends me these random passive-aggressive text messages. Because what else is the coward going to do? Choose me, like he goddamn promised he would? Oh, the horror!
Let him choke on his feelings until his eyes bulge and all he sees are little ubiquitous bubbles of my face.
Bastard.
Me:I know, thanks. That’s what everyone keeps telling us, how amazing we look together.
Me:He hasn’t asked for my hand yet, but when he does I think I’ll say yes. I think I’m ready…
Much classier than “fuck off,” which is what I really want to text back.
He doesn’t respond.
I wasn’t expecting him to.
~
Fraud:Why bother with the scraps? Why not just go bare and upload it to PornHub? [attached: screenshot_00230.jpg]
Me:Did you miss my man’s heart eyes emoji in the comment section? If he’s good with it, that’s all I care about.
The attached image is a screenshot of my most recent Instagram upload. Last week, Sunny received a bunch of bikini swimsuits from a swimwear company that pays her thousands of dollars just to post pictures of herself in their designs. She roped me into dressing up with her and taking photos out in Tripp’s courtyard. We were feeling ourselves for sure.
The bikini design in the screenshot, while dope, barely covers much. And I’m not small and petite like Sunny. I’m tall and juicy in the tits, hips, and ass areas.
On the weekend, when I uploaded this, with a beer-soaked brain, it wasfire. But right now, on a sober, humid, Wednesday morning, it’s screaming Instagram model thirst trap.
But if I delete it now, Saint will think I did it to please him.
We can’t have that. No way.
I ignore his text, wait two days, then quietly delete the picture from my profile.
Less than five freaking minutes after deleting the damn picture, my phone pings with a text.
Fraud:Good girl.
