Devon sways slightly in the hallway’s dim light, his usual confident stance—shoulders back, chin tilted upward—replaced by something fragile and unsteady. One hand braces against the doorframe, knuckles white with effort. The smell of expensive whiskey radiates from him in waves, clinging to his rumpled Oxford shirt that’s half-untucked and missing a button. His eyes are red-rimmed, bloodshot at the corners, glistening with unshed tears that magnify the flecks of gold in his hazel irises. His hair is disheveled, sticking up at odd angles on one side as if he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly, a nervous habit I’ve watched him indulge for years.
“Betsy,” he slurs, leaning against my doorframe for support. “I saw your light on.”
“It’s midnight, Devon.” I cross my arms over my silk pajamas, suddenly conscious of how intimate they look, how the fabric clings to my curves. “What are you doing here?”
His gaze drifts past me into my apartment, searching. “Are you alone?”
The question ignites something in me—a spark of indignation that flares hot and bright. "That’s none of your business.”
"I saw you tonight,” he says, his voice cracking. “With him. That guy. At Marcello’s.” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “The way he looked at you. The way you smiled back.”
I tighten my grip on the door until my knuckles turn bone-white against the dark wood, the edge digging painfully into my palm. “Were you following me?"
“No, I was—” He runs a hand over his face, his palm rasping against three days of stubble that shadows his jawline like a bruise. His fingers tremble slightly, catching on the frayed collar of his wrinkled shirt where a coffee stain blooms like a rust-colored flower. The hallway light catches the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead as he sways closer. “Does it matter? Are you in love with him?”
The audacity of the question bubbles up from my chest as a laugh—sharp and acidic like vinegar hitting the back of my throat. “Seriously?” My fingers curl tighter around the doorknob, the metal cool against my flushed skin. “You don’t get to show up at my door at midnight, reeking of whiskey, and demand information about my love life.”
"Please,” he whispers, and a tear finally escapes, carving a glistening path through the stubble on his left cheek before catching at the corner of his mouth. “I need to know."
“You need to go home, Devon.” The words taste like chalk in my mouth.
He steps forward, close enough that I can see theconstellation of freckles across his nose that only appear when he’s been drinking. His cologne—the expensive sandalwood one I gave him last Christmas—mingles with whiskey and desperation. “Anna and I broke up."
“I know.” I plant my feet against the worn threshold, spine straight as a ruler. “Liana told me Anna dumped you last week after finding those texts.”
His face falls, skin blanching beneath his tan, the carefully constructed narrative crumbling like wet sand between fingers. "That’s not.
“Not what? The story you were planning to tell me? That you heroically ended things because you realized I was the one you wanted all along?” My tongue feels coated with battery acid, each syllable burning as years of suppressed truths bubble up like magma through cracks in the earth. The hallway’s fluorescent light catches the hollow of his throat as he swallows hard. "I’m not interested in soothing your bruised ego tonight.”
“It’s not like that,” he insists, his voice cracking like thin ice as he reaches for my hand, his fingers trembling, nails bitten to the quick.
I step back, the floorboards creaking beneath my bare feet. The space between us fills with stale whiskey fumes and years of disappointment. "It’s always like that. For years, I’ve been there for you—holding your hand through every tearful breakup, every missed promotion, every time you needed someone to stroke your ego until the sun rose. But where were you when I needed you?”
His mouth opens, then closes, lips parched and chapped, the lower one quivering slightly. A muscle twitches in his jaw as moonlight from my window catches the sheen of sweat along his hairline.
“When my father died and I sat alone in that sterile hospital corridor? When I lost that fellowship and drank cheap wine on my bathroom floor? When I was in the hospital with pneumonia for nine days, watching the door for flowers that never came?” Each question lands like a physical blow, his shoulders hunching further with each impact. “You’ve never once been there for me, Devon."
“That’s not fair—” he protests, voice hollow as an empty bottle.
“You go through life believing what you do has no consequences,” I continue, my voice rising as years of resentment boil up my throat like acid reflux. “You date these girls, cheat on them, play the field, and then crawl back to me with your pathetic excuses and bloodshot eyes.
You’ve been using me as your emotional toilet for years because in your entitled little mind, you think, ‘Everything will be okay because stupid, reliable Betsy loves me. I’ll be okay because desperate Betsy wants me.’” I jab my finger into his chest, hard enough to leave a bruise. His eyes widen, pupils dilating with shock as the color drains from his face.
“Well, I’ve got fucking news for you.” My voice drops to a venomous hiss, each word a razor blade. “Betsy doesn’t love you anymore.” The silence between us crackles with electric tension. Devon’s face crumples like wet cardboard, his mouth contorting into an ugly downward curve, nostrils flaring as he gasps for air. His features collapse in real time—genuine devastation, not the calculated puppy-dog eyes he’s perfected to manipulate me.
“You don’t mean that,” he whispers, his voice cracking like glass beneath a boot heel.
“I fucking do.” The certainty burns through me likewildfire, scorching away years of doubt. “I’ve wasted half a decade waiting for you to grow up, to see me—really see me. But you never have. You’ve been too busy staring at your own goddamn reflection.” My hands clench into fists so tight my nails bite crescents into my palms. “And now someone actually sees me, and it terrifies you because you’re losing your human security blanket.”
He stumbles backward, shoulder blades hitting the wall with a dull thud. His face drains of color, leaving his freckles standing out like flecks of dirt on porcelain. “So that’s it? Years of history just... erased?"
“The history isn’t gone, Devon.” My voice drops to a venomous hiss. “But my willingness to be your emotional punching bag is.” I jab a finger toward the stairwell, my arm trembling with rage. “Go home. Sleep it off in your empty bed. Call one of your pathetic backups to stroke your fragile ego."
“Betsy, please—” His eyes glisten, but I recognize the calculated performance behind them.
“Goodnight, Devon.” I close the door firmly, not slamming it, but with a quiet finality that feels more powerful than any dramatic gesture.
I lean against the closed door, listening to his ragged breathing on the other side, waiting for the sound of his footsteps retreating down the hallway. When they finally come, slow and unsteady, I slide down to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees.
