“Don’t love me,” he whispers, though you’re still twenty feet away. You hear him anyway. You always do. “Just want me. Want me like a cigarette at 3 a.m. Want me like the last slice of pizza at a party where you don’t know anyone. Want me like a song you hate but can’t stop humming.”
He leans forward, his elbows resting on the worn wood, and you notice the faint smell of cedar that clings to his coat. “I have a proposition, not for you, but for you, the version of you that’s still listening. I want you to want something. Not just any want—something that will change the way you see the world, and perhaps the way the world sees you.” charlie forde want you to want
He’s older than you’d guess—perhaps in his late forties, with a silver‑threaded beard that catches the light just enough to look like a constellation. His eyes are a shade of green that feels oddly familiar, as if you’ve seen them in a dream you can’t quite recall. A thin scar runs across his left cheek, a pale line that seems more decorative than violent. “Don’t love me,” he whispers, though you’re still