Have you ever wondered why some relationships that start like fire end up as slow poison?
Walking away from Chris was never simple. Not in the beginning. He wasn't the type to beg for love, yet he wasn't the type to lose it either.
Why did she remain—lost in chaos, tangled in mixed signals, trapped in a dance that never found its rhythm?
Chris looked like every warning wrapped in muscle—dark skin, daylight charm, and a night that made you forget your rules.
He was caramel wrapped in chocolate, served on gold, and his abs were sharp enough to tempt a saint.
Biceps that stretched sleeves and made doors look too small when he leaned on them. His dark red lips made girls dream things they'd never admit. They dropped their pride at his feet, hoping to experience the legend they'd heard about. Sweet dismay—that's what Chris was. A delicious disaster waiting to happen.
So when Bella fell for his pull, everyone whispered, "Finally." The campus darling had found her king.
Home drained her. Life pressed her. Chris, with his fat pockets, amiable smile, and that "don't worry, I've got you" charm, seemed like an escape—calm, sweet, pocketful.
It wasn't love at first sight. It was a relief. And sometimes, relief is enough to make you stay until love happens.
And oh, love happened. Or something that seemed like it. Because when Chris wanted any girl, he didn't knock; he broke down their walls with presence and charm.
He had a way of looking at Bella like she was a map he intended to memorize, a treasure he wanted to bury his soul in. She could not play hard to get. Her walls were soft clay in his hands. He locked eyes with her, crushed her resistance, and kissed her until "maybe" became "yes."
That rainy night still storms through Bella's mind whenever it returns.
The student center lights flickered on the wet pavement. Students ran for cover, clutching designer backpacks and takeout. Bella kicked off her heels, her braids sticking to her cheeks, and ran across the courtyard.
Chris stood there, smirking as rain slid off his leather jacket.
"Bella!" he called, his voice cutting through the drizzle. "You'll catch a cold like that."
She spun, shivering, and he caught her wrist with one firm tug. They hid under the bistro's awning. Warm lights glowed. The smell of grilled cheese filled the damp night.
Chris bought cocoa and puff-puff, paid in crisp bills, and passed one to her. "You always run like someone's after you," he said. "I like keeping my lungs in one piece," she teased, sipping.
"Then stay close to me," he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw.
Then he kissed her; deep, slow, and sure, the kind that made half the campus whisper his name—warm, wet, and tasting of cocoa, rain, and everything reckless.
That night wasn't love. It was a claim, sweet, dangerous, and inevitable. And Bella, craving something real, gave herself to him.
But six months in, they broke up.
It didn't end with fireworks or scandal. It collapsed in silence. Chris grew unavailable, and Bella, exhausted from begging for crumbs, stopped asking. But the universe, cruel as ever, never lets a beautiful woman grieve in private. There was always someone watching.
He was a junior. Tall, curious eyes, a football freak who carried his team on his chest like a badge of pain—Man United. They first spoke at her favorite campus hangout, a lazy Saturday soaked in talk about scores.
"You're a Man United fan? Poor thing," Bella teased, lips curling. "It must be hard living like that." The surrounding boys howled. He didn't flinch. "Better loyal and losing than fake and floating." She smirked. "Says the boy whose club collects heartbreak like souvenirs."
They laughed. And that was how it began—not with sparks but banter with a boy who dared to speak where others only stared. Days became weeks, and soon, her phone stopped waiting for Chris's name to light it up. This junior class guy became a quiet place to lean on. Nothing deep. Not yet.
Then one evening, he crossed a line by kissing her mid-laugh, although she didn't push him away. Bella froze. Guilt seared her skin. Chris still existed. Chris was out there packing his bags for a summer trip and had begged him not to take it.
He promised a trip that would "help his family," "build his plans," and "make more money." Never about them.
So she decided: Enough.
On a warm Tuesday morning, after her first lecture, Bella picked up her phone and called.
"Hey, you. It's been a while. How have you been?"
Chris spoke lightly. "I've been fine, sorting my travel plans for the summer."
The trip, she thought. The same damn trip I begged you not to take.
"Alright," she said, her voice calm, almost detached. "I called because I need to clear the air on certain issues. I'm exhausted, Chris. I'm done with this relationship. It's not what I dreamed it would be, and I'm ready to move on. For two months, I've been begging for your time and attention. You've been too busy. So why waste our time? I'm calling this off."
It should have been quick, clean, and merciless. But Chris had a gift—a gift dangerous men carry in their back pocket. He knew when to apologize, when to plead, and when to remind you of what your body still remembered.
"Damn," his voice cracked, low and urgent. "What was I thinking? I didn't know I'd pushed you this far, honeybunch. I'm sorry. Let's meet. Let's talk."
"No, Chris. Your apologies won't buy me. I won't step back into that emptiness."
"How about lunch? Anywhere you want. "Bills are on me."
She should have ended that call. She should have hung up. Should have blocked him. But then came the sentence, the one that bent her spine like wet straw:
"I'll bring your favorite. Ice cream. Double scoop."
God, he knew her buttons—where to press and how long to hold. Her "No" slipped into a shaky "Yes," and her resistance soon disappeared.
It should have been "No." No, to the ice cream. No, to the late apology. No, to the boy who always returned only when he felt her slipping.
She told herself it was ice cream, a meeting, a talk. But hearts don't play fair when history walks in.
It should have been no. God, it should have stayed no.