I only text him when my head’s clear and that’s when I want him the most. Sober, he’s perfect. Sober, I imagine he misses me too. But he only replies when I’m not right. When I’m bleeding into my notes app or crying in my Deliveroo. He smells heartbreak like it’s free food and shows up when I’m just hungry enough to say yes. He says “nah, I didn’t link her,” and I nod, even though her name’s still in his Uber history. I don’t ask. I already know he tells better stories than the truth ever could. [Chorus] He lies in a tone I wanna believe in— voice low like petrol fumes. He leaves dents in the mattress like I’m meant to sleep around them. Ash on the sideboard, love like a scratchcard— rub it till it tears or shines. He knows how to say "you're overthinking" in ten different ways without moving his mouth. And somehow I still believe him when he says "I rate you still." He leaves his socks in my bed and I keep them like receipts. Not romantic— just proof. That he was here. That I wasn’t dreaming again. I ask if he wants anything and he says “just you, and maybe Lucozade.” And I pretend it’s a joke. But it’s not. It’s gospel. [Chorus] He lies in a tone I wanna believe in— voice low like petrol fumes. He leaves dents in the mattress like I’m meant to sleep around them. Ash on the sideboard, love like a scratchcard— rub it till it tears or shines. [Outro] He left like he always does— door half-shut, mouth full of nothin’. Didn’t look back, just pulled his hood up, said “bless.” I stood there long enough for the air to settle. I still got his name saved under something I won’t say out loud