But things have changed.
“I know.” With a sigh, I lie back on my couch and prop my feet on the armrest. “I’ve just been… putting it off.”
“You’ve been putting it off because you’re scared. You don’t want to face what it’ll feel like when Mason isn’t there to distract you.”
Although her tone is gentle, her words hit hard. Being withMason has always been about more than just comfort—it’s been about avoiding the real issues.
Ghost’s voice creeps into my mind, uninvited, taunting me.“Does your current distraction enjoy the pain you offer? Or has he finally gotten tired of it?”
Both Sarah and Ghost have called Mason my distraction. I hate how much truth there is in those words. Mason isn’t the problem—Iam. But I’m done lying to myself.
“I’m doing it tonight. No more excuses.” My voice is firmer now. “I can’t keep pretending.”
Sarah lets out a long breath. “Good. Just… be kind to yourself, okay? You’re doing the right thing. I’m here all night if you need me.”
“You’re the best. Talk to you later.”
“Bye, Gen.”
Be kind to yourself.
It’s easier said than done, especially when you don’t like who you are.
I stand in front of the window, the city lights casting a dull glow over the room. My reflection stares back at me, eyes hollow, lips pressed together in a tight line.Who am I?
The reflection doesn’t answer, and I look away, trying to steady my breathing as the weight of Ghost’s words presses down on me again, heavier this time.
“What do you think he’d say if he saw the real you? The Geneva that I see?”
I shift my focus to constructing a psychological profile on Mason that’ll help me plan our upcoming conversation. After grabbing a legal pad and a pen, I begin to jot down notes as if Mason were a patient or a criminal.
Mason thrives on control—of his environment, his relationships, and, most importantly, the way others perceive him (Narcissistic tendencies). When things go his way, he’s charming, logical, even supportive. But when he’s challenged, he can’t handle anything that threatens his dominance.
I pause, nibbling on the tip of my pen. Although Mason has never lashed out physically, there’s repressed violence in him. I’ve seen it before, in the way his jaw tightens when I don’t fall in line with his expectations. It’s a quiet, dangerous kind of anger.
For some reason that I can’t explain, he doesn’t scare me the way Ghost does.
Mason can’t handle failure or rejection because it conflicts with the image he has of himself as a capable and strong man. When I tell him it’s over, he won’t just see it as the end of a relationship—he’ll see it as a personal attack, a reflection of his own inadequacies.
I put down my pen and reach for my wine glass. A little liquid courage never hurt anyone. Knowing Mason, he’ll try to manipulate the situation and turn the blame on me. But after dealing with Ghost, Mason’s tactics will seem like child’s play. I guess that serial killer asshole has been helpful in a way. The irony has a smile appearing on my lips as I pick my pen back up.
Me initiating this “break-up” will make Mason feel as though he’s been backed into a corner. He’s the type ofperson who believes he’s entitled to a certain level of respect, and when that respect is denied, he’ll lash out in ways that are meant to remind me of his power. The insults will be calculated, designed to make me feel small, to keep me in check.
The loud knock on my door has me pulling in a fortifying breath.
Here we go.
I place my wine glass down on the coffee table and get to my feet, rehearsing the lines in my head one last time. Direct, quick, honest. No unnecessary explanations, no reasons for him to stay.
When I open the door, Mason’s usual composed expression is in place. He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, sweeping his gaze over me. I’m in my usual sweatpants and an old, torn shirt—it’s casual with the intent to appear innocuous—and I catch the brief flicker of disapproval on his face before he speaks.
“Glad you finally got over yourself, but really, Gen? Sweatpants and… that?” His tone is mildly condescending, as if I’ve somehow insulted him by not dressing up for his arrival.
I press my lips together, biting back the first sting of irritation. After shutting the door behind him, I make my way to the couch to sit down. I cross my arms, creating an invisible barrier between us as he removes his jacket.
“Want to have a seat?” I ask.
His eyes narrow slightly at my invitation, but he joins me on the couch at the opposite end. “What’s this about?”
