14. Trip
FOURTEEN
TRIP
I knew before she told me.
The signs were small, but loud to someone like me.
Her messages changed.
Shorter. Lighter. Filtered.
She stopped sending voice notes and selfies at night.
No more lipstick stains on her blunt. No more giggling nudes in the mirror with captions like “Can’t stop thinking about your voice.”
And on her Snap story, up for exactly eleven minutes, was a single photo.
A table for two.
Her hand. His watch.
“Maybe I like real people after all.”
Patrick.
I don’t have to guess.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
I sit on the garage floor in just sweats, back against the cold concrete, a blunt in one hand, phone in the other. Her last message is still unread. I haven’t opened it yet.
Because I know if I see her calling him baby, I might actually lose it.
Instead, I open our saved snaps.
The one of her tits pressed together in a sheer white bra.
The one where she was riding her vibrator and whispering my name.
The one where she said, “Don’t fall in love with me. I ruin nice things.”
The problem is, I’d never wanted anything nice.
I want her.
Wrecked. Ruined. Mine.
We still play together.
COD Black Ops 6. Ranked lobbies. Late-night chaos.
She always invites me when Patrick isn’t on. Still adds me to party chat like nothing has changed. But it has.
She doesn’t flirt anymore.
No giggles when I save her from a sniper.
No sly moans when we play Warzone, and I revive her, saying, “I’ve got you.”
No whispered, “TripsterGuy…” when we clear an objective side-by-side.
But she plays better with me. Sharper. More reckless. Like she still needs to feel the way I push her, just without the tension.
That’s fine.
I don’t push.
I cover her six. Take the shots. Lead the objectives. Let her chase glory and keep her clean on the backend.
I give her friendship.
Like a fucking good guy.
But if she thinks I’m done claiming her?
She’s wrong.
I double down on the thirst traps.
Harder. Filthier. Meaner.
The next video starts with my fingers flexing inside black leather gloves. Veins bulging under the ink. The camera zooms slowly up my forearms, over my chest, sweat-slick and cut from every angle.
My mask stays on. Of course.
I let the silence sit for a beat. Then…
“You let him post you now. Good girl. I hope his praise is worth pretending you're satisfied.”
I post it with no caption.
Within minutes, the comments blow up.
“Sir, I would bark for you.”
“The gloves. The fucking GLOVES.”
“Not me arching in bed right now like an idiot.”
But one comment, buried low, makes my chest burn.
[lydie.live ]: “You’re not subtle.”
She sees it.
She knows.
And she still watches.
I still watch, too.
Every night when she leaves her stream. When the notifications go silent. When she walks out her front door with him.
I keep my distance, but just barely.
I see Patrick’s hand on her thigh at the food truck by the gas station.
See him drive her car, adjusting the seat like he lives there now.
See her follow behind him with takeout bags while he talks over her on the phone.
I notice her smile.
But more than that, I notice the things she doesn’t do anymore.
She doesn’t post memes about chaos.
Doesn’t share thirst reposts.
Doesn’t make dirty jokes on stream the same way.
She’s quieting herself.
Shrinking.
Patrick is soft right now. Charming. Predictable.
But I’ve seen this play before.
He’ll say he doesn’t mind her streaming with other guys, but then start making jokes.
He’ll say he likes her clothes, but ask if she could wear something “less distracting” when they go out.
It won’t happen all at once.
Control never does.
But eventually, he’ll stop opening doors and start locking them behind her.
I sit in the dark with my mask on and my phone in my hand, staring at her Snap story as it plays on loop. It’s a repost from her fans.
A clip of her in-game, clearing a team with perfect precision, biting her lip as she reloads, headset crooked, tits bouncing in a low-cut top.
The comments are thirsty. Wild. Overwhelming.
I watch the video fourteen times. I don’t save it. Don’t screen record. Don’t need to. I have it memorized.
Let him be the boyfriend.
Let him drive her to brunch and buy her flowers, and play pretend in her curated feed.
I’m leaving.
I’m backing off.
I’m just waiting.
Because I know him. I know the cracks.
And I know that when he breaks, she’ll need someone to pick up the pieces.
Someone strong. Someone patient.
Someone already obsessed.