Favourite Mistake

An apology, a confession, and some advice you definitely didn’t ask for.

Explicit Content Involved. enjoy !

Dear John,

I’ll try my best to tone down the explicit nature of this, just enough to get you through to the end.

I’m sorry you’re solving a problem I created.

I mean that.

Because the woman sleeping beside you now was once the closest thing I had to a soulmate.

My confidante.

A breathtakingly sweet, occasionally fiery, ridiculously cute, petite ebony shemon demon who somehow became home to me.

And then I lost her.

I sat alone with the pain of that loss while she found shelter in another, you.

Who could blame her?

She just lost a tall dark sexy chocolate nigga like me .

you became shelter for her to hide from the storm we created in each other.

So before anything else, John

“ I am sorry you’re solving a problem I created. “

But there is something you should understand about the woman you’re with.

I’ve explored her in ways that have very little to do with taking her clothes off.

I know her.

She was an open book with me.

I know what sits behind her smile. I know the difference between her angry silence and her hurt silence. I know her fears, her insecurities, her sorrow, the things that excite her and the things she’ll pretend don’t bother her until 2 a.m.

I’ve watched her happy.

I’ve watched her break.

I’ve watched her become soft.

I’ve watched her become fire.

And, unfortunately for you, I know her body with the same familiarity.

There was never a boring moment between us.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

“ She doesn’t tell you everything, does she?

Guess how I know. “

I wasn’t okay after we ended.

I was at least humble enough to admit that.

She was different.

She wore moving on beautifully. From the outside, you’d probably believe her.

I didn’t.

Not because I’m going to insult you with some I’m impossible to get over bullshit.

I simply knew her.

And she wasn’t over me.

I could see through the performance because I’d spent too long learning the actress.

Then one day, she came to see me.

Tube top. Pretty face. Fake happy smile.

She said she was checking up on me.

Bro.

You and I both know that’s bullshit.

She came to compare injuries.

She wanted to see which of us had survived the crash better.

What I didn’t expect was how badly she was still bleeding.

Especially because, technically,

she had you.

And that’s when I found myself wondering something I probably shouldn’t ask another man

“ What exactly are you doing in your relationship? “

I have a soft spot for that woman.

Always have.

So I couldn’t watch her walk away like that.

I asked her to stay for a while.

She agreed.

We hugged.

I never knew a hug could feel wrong until that night.

Not wrong because I didn’t want it.

Wrong because it felt too familiar for two people who were supposed to belong somewhere else now.

Then she started talking.

And talking.

And talking.

Everything she had been carrying came pouring out.

Apparently, she couldn’t tell you some of the things eating away at her. She was too busy trying not to screw things up with you, while simultaneously keeping tabs on whatever women might be appearing in my life.

Interesting arrangement you two had going on.

“ Sorry, John. That was unnecessary. “

Mostly.

We talked for hours.

The kind of conversation where midnight quietly becomes morning without either person noticing.

Eventually, it was too late for her to leave.

So she stayed.

That should have been the end of it.

Except she kept staring into my eyes.

And she knows what that does to me.

I leaned in instinctively and kissed her.

She didn’t kiss me back.

For about two seconds.

Out of respect for you, I suppose.

Then her hands came up to my face

and she kissed me back.

I remember the relief more than anything.

Because suddenly every suspicion I’d had was standing right there between us.

She hadn’t forgotten me either.

And this, John,

is where you may want to start taking notes.

I know your girl’s body like the palm of my hand.

Blindfold me and I’d still know my way around her.

Every shift of her weight.

Every change in her breathing.

Every moan she tries to suppress.

Every twitch.

Every curled toe.

Every scratch.

Every bite.

Every little betrayal her body makes when she is trying to maintain composure.

I pulled her closer by the waist until her arms found my neck.

My hands traveled down her back while I kissed those lips I’d spent far too long pretending I didn’t miss.

Then her neck.

Just beneath her ear.

That got the first soft moan.

Of course it did.

Some things don’t change.

Her shoulders followed, then that familiar trail downward, until whatever restraint we’d walked into that room with had become almost laughable.

Soon we were on the bed.

And suddenly there was no you.

No breakup.

No pretending we’d moved on.

No moral argument happening inside either of our heads.

Just two people who knew each other far too well remembering exactly why forgetting had been so difficult.

I remembered what made her breathing change.

She remembered exactly how to make me lose mine.

Every movement felt less like discovery and more like muscle memory.

And when she finally took control, pinning my hands above me with that look on her face

God.

I missed that woman.

I tried to maintain some dignity.

I promise you I did.

Didn’t last.

After that, whatever tenderness had survived quickly became hunger.

Bed.

Floor.

Sofa.

At some point, geography stopped mattering.

There were no words needed to check what came next because we had spent enough time together to understand each other’s rhythms, the pauses, the movements, the little signals that said more, slower, there, don’t stop.

Two hours later, we were exhausted.

So I did what any gentleman would do after temporarily ruining another man’s peace.

I made her food.

That should have been the end.

It wasn’t.

The following day we told ourselves:

Last time.

Then again.

Okay. This is definitely the last time.

Again.

Five days.

Five consecutive days of two supposedly sensible adults repeatedly announcing the end of something while apparently having absolutely no intention of ending it.

Eventually, I relocated.

Distance finally did what discipline couldn’t.

I asked her to block me.

I blocked her too.

Because sometimes you don’t remove someone from your life because you’ve stopped wanting them.

Sometimes you remove them precisely because you haven’t.

And that’s where you come in again, John.

I don’t know you.

Maybe you’re a good man.

I actually hope you are.

And despite everything you’ve just read, I’m not writing this to tell you she’s secretly mine.

People aren’t property.

She gets to choose the life she wants.

She chose to continue hers without me, and I eventually had to respect that.

But you should know the woman beside you has depths that don’t reveal themselves simply because you’ve been granted access to her life.

Listen to her.

Learn her.

Don’t become so comfortable with having her that you stop discovering her.

Because I made that mistake once too.

And I lost someone I could only describe as my soulmate.

So yes,

“I’m sorry you’re solving a problem I created.”

And since I’ve probably already disturbed your evening, I might as well leave you with something useful:

“you can never do it like me.”

You shouldn’t.

Learn how to do it like you.

Learn the woman you’re with rather than competing with the man who came before you.

And if she’s still choosing you after all this time, give her something worth choosing.

As for me?

I’ll stay where exes are supposed to stay.

In the past.

Preferably very, very far away.

Because you and I both know

some doors are safer when nobody checks whether they’re still unlocked.

Yours truly,

Me.

“ This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental. And yes, there’s a much rawer, more explicit version of this story if you’re interested. ”