LISTEN TO ARTICLESynthesized Narration • 0:00 / 0:00

They say‚ love feels like fire. But they never said what it’s like to be the one left smoldering— to burn quietly while someone else gets the flame. As I was preparing to sleep‚ Backburner by Nikki played in my room— low, haunting‚ the kind of song that makes your chest feel full and empty at once. I was brushing my hair when my phone buzzed. His name again. Always his name. Like an echo I can’t turn off. He always texts past midnight, when the world's too quiet for guilt to speak. Never during the day—because daylight belongs to her. But the dark? That’s when he remembers I exist‚ when she’s asleep. And I always reply. No hesitation. Just a habit. Just hunger. He says, “You up?“ And I say, “Always.“ Always—like I’ve been waiting, like I’ve built my nights around the possibility of him. And maybe I have. We talk. About nothing. About everything. He asks what I'm listening to. I say, “Backburner.“ He laughs, says, “Fitting.“ I laugh too, even though the irony hurts. Even though I know what I am to him— the spare, the secret, the soft place to land when he’s tired of being loved properly. He once said, “You’re easy to talk to.“ I wanted to say, “No, I’m easy to use.“ But I didn't. I just smiled. Because even his scraps feel like something I can starve on. Some loves don’t end—they just fade into things you stop checking your phone for. He calls me his peace, but I’m really just the silence between his lies. He tells me I make him feel calm, but I know I only exist to hold what she can’t see. I am not his peace— I am his purge. He tells me, “She doesn't understand me like you do.“ And for a second, I believe him. For a second, I let myself think I’m winning. But then he ends the call to go back to her. And I stay, staring at my reflection on a blank screen, the glow fading, the ache settling. He didn't have to leave me. He just stopped choosing me. He says he’s tired‚ and I say, “Then rest here.“ But he never stays long enough to fall asleep. He only ever borrows warmth, then leaves before dawn to return it to her. Sometimes, I imagine her face. Her voice. Her hands. I wonder if she knows what he does when the night gets too heavy. I wonder if she feels it too— the way love can be shared without consent. Tonight, though, something feels different. He sounds distant. His messages come slower. Then finally: “She found out.“ I ask, “About us?“ He doesn't reply for a long while. Then answered: “There’s no ’us.’ You know that.“ I read it twice. Three times. The words doesn't change. The wound deepens each time, like a knife pressed slower instead of deeper. I was never his mistake—just his meantime. I type something. Delete it. Type again. Delete again. There’s no sentence that doesn't sound like begging. The song’s still playing. Same verse. Same ache. The kind of melody that sounds like crying through clenched teeth. My screen goes dim, but I still see his name, faint, lingering. He’s probably asleep beside her now. Maybe he even dreams of me— but wakes up forgetting. I stay awake. Listening. Not to the song anymore, but to the silence between each beat of my own heart— each one slower, heavier, lonelier. You can’t mourn something that was never yours. But I still do. And then, I realize something brutal: I’ve memorized the sound of his leaving. The pauses. The unfinished sentences. The half-love disguised as almost. He doesn't have to say goodbye. He already has— every night he comes back less. I put my phone face down. The screen lights for a second, then dies out completely. Just like us. If there ever was an “us.“ The room smells like old perfume and heartbreak— and I think that’s how I’ll always remember this night. Not as the one where he left. But the one where I finally understood that he never really stayed. Barely warm, barely mine—and still burning.