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𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄

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— Rio was never really mine. But he acted like it—when it was convenient.

He’d pull up late, hoodie on, diamond chain flashing under the streetlights, talking slick like he didn’t just leave me on read all day. “Come here, ma,” he’d whisper, arms wide like home.

And like a fool, I’d fall right into them.

I knew he wasn’t loyal. I saw the signs. The girls. The lies. The way he kept his phone face-down, the way he’d say “you overthinking” every time I called him out.

He wasn’t mine, not really.

But he’d kiss me like I was the only girl in the world. Whisper “you know you mine” in the dark, just soft enough to make me forget every red flag.

I knew I deserved more. But he was addicting. Toxic, yes—but his touch felt like comfort and chaos all at once.

And even when I cried, even when I begged for the truth—he’d look me dead in the eyes and lie. And I’d believe him.

Because Rio wasn’t mine. He was almost mine.

And sometimes, “almost” hurts more than “never.”

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One night he text you...

"yo shawty? wanna come tru??"

"yo -ss ignoring now?

"answer ma f-cking textes b4 i pull up at yo crib."