“Sylvester! I said 2 minutes! Hurry your ass up!” My boss, Mr. Tucker, yelled from the backdoor of the bar.

I couldn’t be upset, he saved me from a grim trip to the past in my whirling thoughts. Small embers glistened in the twilight as I squished my cigarette on the ground. That beautiful colour reminds me of his heart-piercing gaze…

It had been a year since I decided. I couldn’t be the secret anymore, the side piece in a twisted love story that was supposed to be mine. Every time I closed my eyes, I could still feel the warmth of his body against me, the way his hands would roam, igniting a fire that both thrilled and terrified me.

But not enough for me to push him away every time he kissed my neck, nibbled on my earlobe and whispered in his husky voice “Fuck, Syl… you’re gonna be mine tonight huh?”

I hated myself and still am for being so easy. Just another hole for him to snuggle his cock in. It always starts with him showing up in the bar, standing almost taller than the doorframe, like an apex hunter knowing his prey. Whenever hungry, he’ll come to the spot that guarantees a meal. But I had to draw the line somewhere, after countless nights spent tangled in the sheets, surrounded by that familiar sex musk that no one can describe the smell of. Passionately making out as the moonlight kisses our skin. Falling asleep with his arms around me, only to wake up to the reality of his world — his girlfriend, his career— I decided it was time to break free and be absolute… But moving on wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

Well… I lied; I knew exactly that it would be an uphill battle. My weak-ass love-deprived loser. Lack of a father figure as a child. This conflict seems to be unwinnable most of the time. I created an illusion of victory by focusing on my job. I poured my heart and soul into my work, shaking cocktails, serving drinks, meeting strangers and sometimes even hooking up with the customers. It was mainly men twice my age, as I felt safe with them. But none can fill that hole like he does…

Every time the door swung open and the bell jingled, my heart would skip a beat. I expected him to walk in with that cocky grin, the one that made my stomach twist and turn. But he never did; he is not a creep. He respects my false wishes. If I tell him not to show up, he won’t. Part of it was fear. The picture-perfect image of a handsome young man, serving his country as a marine with a conventionally beautiful girlfriend that I could easily ruin. But he knows deep down that I wouldn’t hurt him that way, that my heart belongs to him, and our desire for each other is paralleled.

It wasn’t long before I started to read his persistent texts on my notifications screen. At first, they were casual, full of humour and playful teasing, a glimpse of the connection we once shared. But as the days turned into weeks, his messages took on a more desperate tone.

“Just wanna grab a drink,” he’d say. “Can we talk? I miss you...”

I’d read them over and over, and my chest would tighten with the memories of our stolen moments. I could picture him, that strong physique in his uniform, the world’s weight on his shoulders, yet behind closed doors, he was mine. My heart ached for that intimacy, but I remembered the pain, the way I felt when I realized I was just a secret. Yet my hands itched from restraining to type back. It was almost painful to the point that it was unbearable.

So… I scratched… Reluctantly, I reread my own text for what felt like a thousand times before my shaking thumb hit the send button.

“Hey. You know where to find me.”