Do Not Fall in Love With Me

I’m not the hero in some Hallmark movie, okay?

You won’t find me staring at sunsets or clutching a faded love letter. The closest I get to romance is deciding whether to add extra sauce to my cheap takeout.

I don’t feel things.

Not really.

I just survive them. And barely that.

Rent’s late, phone’s on 5% battery and no charger in sight, fridge’s emptier than my sense of humor. Every call from my landlord feels like a countdown to eviction.

The ad? Yeah, it was a gem.

That’s why I clicked.

“Seeking male for aggressive, emotionless encounters. Discretion required. Payment guaranteed. Do not fall in love with me.”

That last line? That was the cherry on this delightful shit sundae.

Payment guaranteed. That’s the real magic words. Payment. Because I’m one bounced rent check away from living in my car. Not that it’d be the first time.

Like falling in love would be a problem for me. I’m about as romantic as a bedpan.

I’ve never been in love.

Don’t believe in it.

Never wanted it.

People like me don’t fall in love.

We fall in line.

I clicked. Because what else was I gonna do—call my mom?

No name, no photo, no smile.

Just a list of references and limits, like I was applying to join a fucking fight club with a safe word.

I didn’t expect a reply.

She sent one an hour later.

Tuesday. 10PM. Do not be early. Do not knock. Leave when I tell you to. Bring nothing.

No name. No “hey, looking forward to meeting you.” Just command.

That’s when I knew she’d be dangerous. Not because she was some horror movie cliché with a chainsaw.

Because she sounded like she’d already decided I didn’t matter.

And I liked that.

I’m not the nice kind of broken. There’s no tragic backstory here, no girl who left me on prom night. No dog dying in the rain. Just me—wired wrong from the start, like a misfired synapse.

People are loud. They lie. They want too much.

I’ve fucked enough of them to know. They think they want the edge, but they always flinch when it cuts too deep.

I never dream about the future.

I never wanted kids, or a house, or someone to hold my hand while I rot.

I want something sharp. Clean. Transactional. Like this.

Tuesday. 10PM.

I set an alarm.

Because the rent was due last week, and my stomach’s been growling since Tuesday.

Because people like me don’t get choices. We get bills. We get jobs we hate. We get calls that start with ‘We regret to inform you…’

So yeah, I went. For the money.

And maybe, just maybe, for the thrill.