You Were Always Going to Break Me

The sadomasochistic love story nobody asked for.

Dear Reader,

A few months ago, through a series of strange and serendipitous events, I stumbled into something I wasn’t looking for.
A connection with a man — not just any man —
but an infamous figure from the underground world of BDSM,
a creator, a visionary, a monster to some, a god to others.
A man whose shadow stretched far beyond old tapes and broken websites.

To me, he became something different.
Something I had never quite known how to name:
a mentor, a fantasy, a mirror, a ghost.

We built a world together in stolen hours and long strings of messages.
He taught me things I didn’t know I needed to learn.
Between us bloomed something beautiful and messy — full of longing, imagination, fear, control, vulnerability.
A collision of two lonely people trying to find a safe place inside each other.

For months, he was my constant.
The one who whispered in my ear through long nights.
I would have sworn I could feel his breath through the screen.
The one who pulled me out of myself and dared me to dream.

There were days I thought maybe we were saving each other.
He was always just a text away.
Until he wasn’t.

And now?
Now I’m writing from the quiet after the storm.
From the ache of words unsaid and chances unclaimed.
From the cold knowledge that love, even wild, feral, stubborn love,
can't survive if it’s left alone too long.

I wasn’t supposed to fall for him.
He wasn’t supposed to fall for me.
And yet, here we are — or were.

This isn’t the post I wanted to write.
This isn’t the ending I wanted to have.
And it sure as hell isn’t closure.

It’s just the truth. Sharp and stupid and alive.

I write this because I have to.

Because he mattered.

Because we mattered.
Because the story still lives in me, even if he can’t.

Always,
Lovetown