Part 2: Too Much to Hold, Too Good to Forget”

🎵 Mood: “Deep” – Summer Walker

“I want you to know how deep my love goes…”

He was 47.
Handsome in that seasoned trouble kind of way.
The type your parents used to warn you about — not because of what he says,
but because of how easily he pulls you in without saying much at all.

I didn’t expect to like him so much.
Didn’t expect to laugh as much as I did.
Didn’t expect to open up, or feel seen, or start catching feelings for a man who made it clear he wasn’t looking for anything “serious.”

And still… we ended up wrapped up in something neither of us had a name for.

The age gap?
Thirteen years.
And it showed — but not in the way I thought it would.

He moved different.
Talked different.
Kissed like he meant it.
F*cked me like I was the first woman he ever touched and the last one he ever wanted.
It wasn’t fast.
It wasn’t wild.
It was slow… and deep… and dangerous.

He touched me like he was memorizing me.
Looked at me like he was trying not to fall.
Fought his own feelings while still reaching for mine.

We spent nights curled up in each other, high off weed, tipsy off the wine,
watching Netflix with the volume low and the tension high.
I’d lay across his chest — safe, warm, unbothered —
until his hands started to wander and all that “chillin” turned into full-blown soul-snatching.

Every stroke pulled me deeper.
Deeper into a man I knew was bad for me — but couldn’t stop craving.
He made me forget the rules I promised myself I’d keep.

His sex was slow. Passionate.
He took his time, like he knew he was ruining me.
And I let him.

He cooked like he fucked — with intention.
My favorite was his shrimp and grits.
He’d plate it with that little smirk, knowing damn well I’d eat it and then let him devour me right after.
I craved it almost as much as I craved him.
And the way he handled me? Whew.
He was a storm I didn’t want to run from.

I tamed him for a while…
but he was a wild boy.
The kind that likes to be outside.
The kind that only knows how to stay still for moments, never long enough to build a home in.

Still… I loved him.
I never stopped.
Not even now.
But I loved me more.
And one day, I realized that loving him meant I was losing myself in the process.

So I left.
Not loud.
Not angry.
Just… done.

I didn’t walk away because I stopped feeling him.
I walked away because I finally started feeling me again.

🥀 Tale Takeaway:

Sometimes the man who makes you feel the most alive
is the same one slowly draining your peace.
And no matter how good the sex is —
if the love makes you lose yourself,
it’s not worth keeping.

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