Minutes passed. Or hours. I couldn’t tell.
I sank down to the floor when my knees finally gave out, my back pressed against the counter. My chest hurt — tight, sharp, like something was lodged inside it that wouldn’t come out.
I should’ve said something.
Anything.
But my throat had closed up. My lips had parted and nothing —nothing— had come out.
He’d told me he loved me.
And I’d let him walk away.
The tears came all at once then — hot and fast, spilling down my face as I buried it in my hands. I hated myself.
Not for loving him — I couldn’t even stop if I tried.
But for proving Joel right.
Too much and not enough, all at once.
Joel had never said those exact words, but he didn’t have to. Every time he looked through me, every time he laughed at something I’d said, every time he’d turned away in bed instead of touching me — it had all said the same thing.
And now, when it mattered most, I’d proved him right.
Of course, I couldn’t say it.
Ofcourse,I couldn’t be the kind of person worth staying for.
The worst part was that a small, ugly piece of me believed Ansel when he said he loved me.
I believed him.
But that belief was a fragile thing — like glass in my hands, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
So I stayed on the floor, curled in on myself, letting the tears soak into my sweater until I was empty. Eventually, I stood on shaky legs, wiped my face, and did what I always did.
I packed up the table. Cleaned up the pens. Wiped the counters until the store looked like nothing had happened at all.
And then I turned off the lights and locked the door behind me, like I hadn’t just lost the only person who’d ever made me feel like I mattered.
Later that night, I sat cross-legged on my bed. It was innocent enough…
It started with a Google search.
I don’t even know why I did it — maybe I just needed proofthat it hadn’t all been in my head. That he hadn’t made it up. That he’d meant it when he said he loved me.
Maybe I just missed him already. It had been so long since I had seen his smile, heard his laugh. Therealones, too. Not the ones he put on for Hollywood.
I typed his name with shaking fingers.
Ansel Barlowe.
And there it was.
The first result — a headline, bold and bright like it didn’t know how to read the room:“Barlowe Gets Real: Love, Sobriety, and the Role That Saved His Life.”
I clicked on it before I could stop myself.
