He asked me, “If you were to write a book about me, what would the title be?”

After a pause, I said, “Intrigue.”

Now that I’m apart from him, I realize how right I was.

He intrigued me—his voice, his mannerisms, the way he stared at me. That gaze felt as if he could see past the pretense, past the walls, past all the hurt. It was unnerving, the way he looked at me, as though he wanted to memorize every part of me.

His touch was no less intense—fingers tracing, grasping, almost carving into my soul as if to uncover what lay beneath. From the moment I first saw him, I knew I wanted him. From the first kiss, I knew I would be addicted. When his hands held me, I wanted to stay there forever.

And now, all I have left are suffocating moments in my head and the feel of him everywhere.