Found an old photo of me and Tyrone. He's smiling, I'm looking at the camera. His smile is so hopeful. I remember that day. I'd just finished fucking his best friend in the bathroom at the party. The taste of another man's cum was still on my tongue when I kissed him hello. He never knew. He just saw his happy girlfriend. That's the thing about men like Tyrone—they see what they want to see. A pretty face, a warm body, a story they can believe in. They don't ask about the other flavors. They don't check the sheets. They just write poems about the light in your eyes, completely oblivious to the darkness you've been swimming in all day. I keep the photo as a reminder. Not of him. Of the performance. Of how easy it is to be someone's angel while being someone else's whole fucking hell.