The Gypsy

He was never a gypsy.

That was the disguise I wrapped him in so I didn’t have to call him what he was.

He appeared when it suited him.

Disappeared when it didn’t.

Never stayed long enough to be known.

Never left long enough to be free of.

Just enough to keep my heart from healing back inside my chest.

I told myself he was a free spirit.

That he lived lightly.

That his absence meant complexity, not avoidance.

Sometimes I messaged him. Because I thought he was the only one who understood me, but the truth was he'd just learned how to mirror me enough to feel significant.

Art.

Existence.

Irony.

All the things you can talk about when you don’t intend to show up in real life.

Most of the time he didn’t reply.

Phone off.

Unavailable.

I used to believe that meant he was protecting his freedom.

Now I know he was protecting his lies.

And when he did answer, I treated those moments as rare and precious.

He laughed.

He listened.

He offered warmth without weight.

A shadow of himself.

Enough to keep me open.

Enough to keep access to what he wanted.

He never tried to fix me, fix us, to talk about anything difficult. I called that understanding, acceptance, peace.

What it actually was, was refusal.

Refusal to engage.

Refusal to commit.

Refusal to be seen clearly enough to be held accountable.

I knew I should close the door.

I didn’t.

Not because the love was wild or impossible or tragic. But because intermittent affection rewires you,

and hope will eat you alive if you let it.

This wasn’t smoke that lingered.

It was addiction.

A slow, elegant hunger dressed up as mystery.

I was being fed on.

Heart extended.

Body treading water.

Waiting for a man who was never coming all the way in,

because he was already elsewhere, taking what he needed.

The ache I called love wasn’t beautiful.

It was consuming.

And the most violent part wasn’t that he left, it was that he kept returning

just long enough

to take another bite.