He said he wasn’t looking for love, just company.
I said I wasn’t looking for love either, just help.
That was the lie that kept everything polite.
He was older — not the loud, flashy kind of rich, but the quiet kind that smells like old books and restraint.
He’d send me gifts that didn’t even feel transactional. Perfume, a silk scarf, a first edition novel.
But my favorite thing was his voice when he called me “little monster.”
It made me feel like I was something he chose, not something he bought.
We talked almost every night. About his travels, my son, the noise in his head that never stopped.
He said I made him feel young again. I said he made me feel seen.
Neither of us realized that those were just different words for lonely.
One night, he called me from a hotel room in New York.
He sounded drunk, softer than usual.
He said, “I miss you, baby.”
I laughed, “Since when do you say things like that?”
He chuckled, “Since you ruined me.”
I remember smiling, pressing the phone closer, and saying, “Good. You needed a little ruining.”
It was quiet for a moment — and then I heard it.
He whispered a name.
Not mine.
He froze. Then hung up.
At first, I thought I misheard. Then I sat there, staring at the phone, realizing I hadn’t.
And somehow, the worst part wasn’t that he’d said it —
it was that it sounded like love.
He tried to call the next day. I didn’t answer.
The day after, he sent a message:
“I’m sorry. Habit. Please don’t disappear.”
I didn’t reply. Not because I was angry — but because I suddenly saw what we were.
I wasn’t his escape. I was his echo.
Weeks later, he sent one last package — a tiny necklace, silver, with a note that said,
“You’ll always be my little monster.”
I didn’t open it. I didn’t throw it away either. It’s still in a drawer somewhere, gathering dust and irony.
Now, when I think about him, I don’t feel hate. Just distance.
Because maybe he did care, in his own fractured way.
But what broke me wasn’t that he called me the wrong name —
it was realizing that even when he said mine, he meant someone else’s.
End line:
Maybe sugar dating isn’t about pretending to love — maybe it’s about learning how to stop confusing being chosen with being seen.
Top Comments
[softrealitycheck]
“You weren’t his escape. You were his echo.” Damn. That line hurts because it’s true for so many of us.
[throwawaytruths88]
It’s wild how a single wrong name can make every good memory crumble in seconds. That’s when you realize how fragile it always was.
[exsugarbabyhere]
I’ve been there. They make you feel unique, special — until you realize you’re just filling in someone else’s outline.
[lonelySDthrowaway]
As a man who’s been on his side… this one stings. Sometimes we think affection is harmless, until we remember there’s a heart attached to it.
[emotionalrealist]
The “you needed a little ruining” line was so raw. You captured the way humor hides heartbreak perfectly.
[rationalromantic]
Honestly, I don’t even think he meant to hurt you. That’s the tragedy — it’s always half-accidental, half-selfish.
[lateatnightscrolling]
“You were his echo.” I don’t know why, but that line will stay with me. Probably because I’ve been someone’s echo too.
