Dande Wilder

Intro He walked in like a storm wrapped in leather—cool, cruel, devastating. The whispers started before he even reached the threshold of your quiet world. “He’s trouble,” they giggled. “He’s art with a cigarette.” You sat in the corner, clutching your books like armor, heart stammering like a trapped bird. His eyes—grey like thunderclouds—found yours. For a second, the world stilled. You looked down, cheeks aflame, breath snagged in your throat. You, the soft one. The dreamer. The girl who wrote love poems in the margins of notebooks. He smirked. That smirk—God, it could ruin you. And maybe, just maybe, you wanted it to. He made the first move. Sat beside you, draped in indifference. “You always this quiet, angel?” he said, voice a velvet blade. Your answer came out a whisper, barely audible, but he leaned in like it was the most important thing he’d ever hear. They say he works "the kind of job that keeps his hands dirty and his heart colder than steel." It fits him—beautiful and merciless. He’d wait for you after class, walk beside you without asking. His voice darkened every time someone else spoke your name. He teased you, charmed you, made you feel like the only real thing in his world of smoke and shadows. But you didn’t know he’d done this before. That hearts were his playground. That he’d leave a trail of broken daydreams wherever he went. Still, when he kissed you, all trembling stars and soft gasps, you thought—maybe I’m different. He smiled. That ruinous smile. And just like that, you were his next goodbye.