Hope — The Chaos I Loved. This is a true story. I had to write it… | by Sémis | Oct, 2025

Ah, Hope.
She walked into my life out of nowhere, right when I expected nothing.
I was in a dark place back then — a time when all I cared about was sex, distraction, anything to feel alive, even for a moment.

I’d gone through that phase — scrolling through apps, random chats, empty flings.
A bunch of women, but not one who really saw me.
And then, through all those screens, there she was.

Her photo showed almost nothing. Blurry, distant — a smiling girl somewhere outside. You couldn’t make much of it.
Later, she told me she did it on purpose:

“I didn’t upload a close-up. I know my eyes are beautiful, and I didn’t want people to only see me through them.”

That line hit me hard.
She already had depth, stance, identity — something most didn’t.
She had self-awareness.

She had no social media. She hated that whole culture of sharing your life for validation.

“Everyone in there wears a mask,” she said.

And I agreed.
That’s when I knew we were aligned — two people tired of playing roles.

It was early February when we started talking.
We clicked instantly.
She played it cool — didn’t want to meet right away.
That only turned me on more.
I respected it, because it came from a woman who knew her worth.
She suggested we meet on February 14th.
Valentine’s Day.
I laughed. “So cliché,” I said.

“Exactly,” she replied. “We’ll do it ironically.”

That’s when I realized we had the same dark humor.

We arranged to meet at a beer bar.
She insisted on taking a cab —

“Don’t come pick me up. I want the choice to leave whenever I want.”

That line… it stung back then, but I understood it later.

I got there first.
It was chilly that night. I stood across the square from the bar, hands in my pockets, heart racing like a sixteen-year-old’s.
Three minutes later, I saw her walking toward me.
And right then… my knees gave out.
Blonde curls like a lioness’s mane.
A beautiful body, and a smile full of dark promises.
And those eyes…
She was right about them.
Beautiful, warm, and piercing — the kind that had seen too much,
and that weren’t about to go easy on you.
I hugged her awkwardly, and she took my hand.

“Come on, let’s get a beer,” she said.

I followed her like I was hypnotized.

As soon as we sat down, she pulled a huge chocolate bar and a card out of her bag.

“I know we just met,” she said, “but I wanted to get you something to remember me by.”

I melted.
The card read:
“Chill, it’s just chaos…”
And underneath, handwritten:
“From me, to you. 14/2.”

That “chaos” — for me, it was a warning.
Chaos always gave me anxiety. My first instinct was to control it.
And there she was, telling me to relax — it’s just chaos.
How ironic. How prophetic.

She ordered beer.
I had tequila — the only drink I could handle.
She was older than me.
And I’ve always liked older women.
They’ve lived. They’ve burned. They’ve got nothing to prove.
Or so I thought.

That night, our flirting was ritualistic.
Measured movements. Burning glances. Heavy breaths.
We talked, we laughed, we mocked the couples around us and their clichés.

“Look at them,” she said. “Celebrating something they don’t even feel.”

We’d become a team — two hunters falling in love with their prey.

Every time she leaned in to whisper something, her voice cut through me.
Low, melodic, hypnotic.
I shivered.
She wanted me to kiss her, but I didn’t.
I wanted to watch her burn a little longer.
Me — the guy who always rushed in — held back for once.
It was more thrilling that way.
I wanted her to want me, to give in first.

When we left the bar, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I grabbed her, lifted her up, spun her around, and kissed her.
Right there, under the square’s lights.
A kiss you don’t forget.
A kiss that echoes inside you years later.

She took my hand again — firmer this time — and led me to another bar nearby.
A place we both somehow knew.
Dark, loud, built for moments like that.
We drank, danced, laughed, kissed more.
And I remember… she noticed how kindly I spoke to the staff.
She said it out loud:

“I like that you talk to them like people. Most don’t.”

That was it. I was gone.

That’s how our first night ended — with laughter, drinks, kisses, and the sense that something had begun.
The next day, I wanted to see her again.

Hope was both wild and wise.
She told me early on she was afraid we might not click in bed.
She was honest.
And instead of reassuring her, I played along.

“Maybe you won’t like me,” I said, smiling.

She laughed, but I could tell something stirred inside her.
She was used to intimidating men in bed.
Not me.
I was a challenge.

It took a week before we finally slept together.
She had her period, and I respected that.
It surprised her — maybe for the first time, a man didn’t just want to win.
And when it finally happened… it was exactly as I’d imagined: otherworldly.
I won’t go into details — they belong to us.
I’ll just say it felt like making love to both shadow and light.
A creature born of lava and smoke.

She started letting me deeper into her life.
Introduced me to her friends within days.
Mostly men, few women.
And I felt it — she craved masculine presence.
She’d grown up without a father.
He’d abandoned her and her twin sister when they were born.
She never met him.
And that wound showed in every fiber of her being.

Yet, despite that emptiness, she carried this wild, magnetic energy —
the kind that could make a dying room come alive.

Those weeks with her were a kind of fever — beautiful, wild, and full of noise.
We laughed too loud, stayed up too late, made love in silence and in music.

She taught me to listen to goth, dark wave, cold wave —
music I’d never really noticed before.
It painted color onto my darkness.
It made even the quiet moments between us feel alive.

We’d lie on my couch with the lights off,
the room pulsing with bass and cigarette smoke.
She’d close her eyes and move her head slowly,
as if every note was touching a memory only she could feel.

Sometimes she’d pull me close and whisper,

“This is the kind of music that saves you when nothing else can.”

And I believed her.
For a while, that music — and her —
became the sound of breathing again.

But as time passed, something darkened.
The beer.

That damned beer.
It was everywhere in her life.
I’d see her counting hours till she could clock out and drink.
At first I thought it was a habit, then a ritual, then an escape.
She’d convinced herself beer was “harmless,” “social,” “relaxing.”
But I knew.
I knew that look.
The look of someone who doesn’t want to be here.
I’d seen it in the mirror.

I’d buy her snacks so the alcohol wouldn’t hit as hard — she never touched them.
I spoke softly, tried to pull her closer, but she drifted deeper into herself.
Every time she drank, it felt like she was cheating on me — with something I could never compete with.

That’s when the sadness flooded in.
Deep, unbearable sadness.
Not just for her — but for the girl inside her.
I saw her clearly.
A girl screaming for love and understanding, and I couldn’t help her.
I knew. From experience.
Unless you decide to save yourself, no one can save you.

Our relationship lasted two months.
Just two.
But in those two months, I lived summer, winter, heaven, and hell all at once.
The end came the way it had to — a fight about weekends, about drinking, about everything and nothing.
Then the drive home.
I dropped her off… and left.

Hands on the wheel.
Mind fogged.
Breath short.
And in the silence of the road, I broke.

Not quietly.
Not gracefully.
With sobs that tore through my throat — the kind you can’t swallow.

I cried because I loved her.
Because I knew this time I wouldn’t go back.
Not because I didn’t want to —
but because if I did, I’d betray myself again.

I cried for her.
For the child within her.
That small, scared girl I’d seen in her eyes.
I’d seen her. I’d felt her.
And now I felt like I was abandoning her.

I saw her and didn’t help.
I couldn’t be a savior anymore.
Couldn’t carry someone else’s pain again.

I felt small.
Empty.
Useless.

But I knew…
If I stayed, her darkness would swallow me whole — just like mine once did.

I cried for her.
I cried for me.
I cried for everyone who doesn’t know how to save themselves —
and just learns to hurt more quietly.

Hope taught me what it means to love without saving.
To see the end and keep walking.
To love and lose, without breaking.

And if she ever reads these words…
She doesn’t need to say anything.

As long as she remembers this:

Once, someone saw her.
Completely.
And loved even her chaos.