Lyrics Remain Unchanged (Heartbreak Mixtapes #2)

Eddie’s Prologue

Eddie’s Prologue

One day, without warning, you’ll stop mid-step and wonder: how did I become this version of myself?

How did I get to this point?

We look back not just to remember, but to make sense of what the fuck we’re doing here. To trace the cracks. To find the reason we keep reaching for more—clarity, purpose, maybe even love.

No, not maybe. We’re all definitely seeking love.

That aching, unbearable hunger for something bigger than your own body. When it strikes, sleep deserts me—too soon, too late—or worse, it’s stolen outright by that thought that slips in at 2:17 a.m. It presses beneath my ribs, whispering names I forgot to say.

The bodies I should have stayed inside.

The hands I should have gripped tighter.

The mouths I should’ve kissed one more time.

The doors I should’ve never closed, or maybe I should’ve lingered at, just a moment longer.

The dreams I should’ve chased instead of burying alive.

A marrow-deep craving for love that doesn’t just warm but burns. Consumes—ripping through everything in its path.

You convince yourself you’ve outgrown the ache to touch what you can’t keep. That you’ve built a life so structured, so brilliantly untouchable, that nothing can undo it—not even him, not even her.

But the body doesn’t forget.

The hunger doesn’t forgive.

It waits.

It waits until the man who once stripped you down to your smallest truths—who carried your breath in his lungs, your pulse in his hands, your name like it was a secret worth keeping—steps back into your orbit.

His look isn’t just recognition. It’s possession.

A demand. A reminder that there was a time when you were his and he was yours—and you mistook that belonging for invincibility, convinced that the press of his body could keep the world from breaking you apart.

The fire.

The silence.

The promise you never said aloud but still somehow made.

He watches you like he still remembers the taste of your surrender, as if the years were nothing more than an intermission, and you still belong to each other in secret ways you’d never dare to confess out loud—because wanting him and wanting her was the secret you both kept like contraband.

You could never risk speaking it aloud when belonging like this is the one truth.

Until the girl who once shared your spotlight but never claimed it walks back in—and she’s not the same.

She doesn’t talk like she used to. Doesn’t smile the same either.

There’s this quiet around her now, not just silence but self-erasure, like the world trained her to shrink, take up less space, and stop expecting too much.

She sometimes avoids your eyes, as if she knows that one look might reveal her—that if you see her too clearly, you’ll uncover all the things she’s tried to hide. And when she does meet your gaze, it’s like she’s asking a question she’s too tired—or afraid—to speak aloud.

You don’t know where she went or what broke her while she was gone, but something in her feels fractured.

You sense it even before she speaks. It’s in the way her presence flickers at the edges, here but not fully present, like she’s haunting her own life.

You can’t stop wondering if she returned hoping to be put back together—or if she only came back because there was nowhere else to go.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

You promise yourself you can handle it.

That this won’t spiral the way it did before.

That you’re more experienced, more thoughtful, more careful.

That you’ll hold yourself at the edge and never step too far in.

But edges blur. You know they do.

You tell yourself hunger can be managed, that it’s just memory dressed up as desire.

You tell yourself the past doesn’t have claws and can’t drag you back into places you swore you’d never go.

You tell yourself belonging doesn’t mean inevitability, that wanting both of them doesn’t make you reckless, doesn’t make you wrong. This time, there will be no surrender. Not loving each other. No building futures in whispers, no pretending forever was ever yours to hold.

And yet—your pulse stumbles when her gaze lingers.

And yet—you feel the old, merciless, and familiar pull like gravity.

And yet—you remember the cost of reaching for her, and still your hands ache to do it again.

You insist curiosity isn’t always dangerous—that it’s possible to want without unraveling, to reach without falling apart.

But even as the lie forms in your mouth, you feel it breaking.

Because wanting her has never been safe.

Wanting them both has never been allowed.

The truth isn’t that you’ll hold yourself at the edge—it’s that you’ve already stepped too close.

And belonging like this was never meant to stay at the edge. You know that. You’ve always known that.

You convince yourself curiosity isn’t always dangerous—that it’s possible to want without unraveling, to reach without falling apart. To help them believe you’ve mastered restraint and that you won’t burn everything down again.

And yet, deep down, you remember: the last time you touched what you weren’t supposed to, destiny didn’t just remind you how forbidden it was—it condemned you for daring to want at all.

But the second you say yes—when you should have walked away, when every part of you that still remembers how it ended last time whispers no—you feel something shift. Not on the surface, but somewhere deeper, somewhere that doesn’t know how to lie—probably your soul.

You recognize it instantly: the slow unravel of control, the way longing starts to replace air, the way your body begins to respond before your mind can catch up.

Because this isn’t harmless.

It never was.

This is longing worn thin by memory.

This is temptation built on history.

This is the beginning of something you can’t walk away from—not because you don’t want to, but because some part of you never did.

And as they both move closer—each pulling at a different version of you—you start to understand that you may be standing in the center of something impossible. That you don’t just want one of them.

You want all of it.

Although you’re not sure what will break first—your heart, your rules, or the life you swore would protect you from this exact kind of fall.

Because you want it all.

All.

You want what they each give you. The history and the hunger. The comfort and the combustion.

You want what happens when he looks at you like you were meant to be ruined, and when she listens like she’s been waiting for you to say something meant just for her.

You want the collision of those truths, and it becomes too much and not enough at once.

It feels like surrender laced with adrenaline, like kissing someone to forget your own name, like being rewritten from the inside out by hands that know what you never admitted you needed.

You chase it because it feels more alive than anything else.

You chase it because it’s the only time you’re not pretending.

You chase it because when you catch it—it doesn’t stop. It swallows you whole, fills you with something vast and wild that doesn’t care what it might break along the way.

The line between craving and self-destruction begins to blur, not in loud confessions, but in glances that last too long, in nights that stretch on until you don’t know whose breath is whose.

There’s a pleasure in it that stays with you, that lingers against your skin long after the night ends—pleasure that makes you question whether you ever truly wanted peace at all, or if you’ve only ever felt alive when everything was on the verge of falling apart.

And at some point, you stop pretending you can hold it all without consequence.

Stop pretending you’re not already splintering beneath the desire to claim both of them, even if it costs you everything you’ve built.

You start asking questions you can’t bear to answer. Do you have to choose? Can you keep her without betraying him? Can you keep him without losing her? Can you have them both and continue with the life you lead?

Because the truth is, it turned. The moment you let it in, it changed you.

It twisted through the clean lines of your life like smoke and left something raw in its place.

You no longer recognize the reflection staring back.

There’s a desperation behind your eyes now, a hunger that isn’t satisfied by success or solitude or the hollow calm of pretending nothing happened.

But here’s the part that scares you most: you don’t regret it. Not for a second. You just don’t know how to keep moving forward without tearing someone apart.

When you tried to fix it all, and life, karma, or fucking destiny played a cruel joke on you.

That’s when you have to ask yourself—what matters more? The life you’ve built? Or the love that might burn through it all?

This is the crossroads where the question isn’t just what comes next, but how you became this version of yourself in the first place.

How did we get here? How did we become this? And when all is done, how will everything look?