Maybe that’s exactly what it felt like when I let that blonde straddle me. When I sat there watching Cassandra look at me like she was swallowing her own heart and trying not to choke on it.
I didn’t deserve to hold it.
I know that.
But fuck — I still wanted to.
She was ten feet away and I couldn’t breathe right.
She wasn’t even touching me and my skin burned like someone had branded me with her name.
And that blonde?
She could’ve been anyone.
Scratch that — I needed her to be anyone.
Anyone but the girl I kissed and abandoned like I hadn’t wanted to destroy the entire fucking world just to kiss her again.
I looked up at Cassandra and, for a moment — a single, razor-thin second — I swear I saw her break.
Not loud.
Not messy.
Just a quiet, devastating crack behind her eyes.
And I’ve seen enough broken things to know they don’t go back the same.
I did that.
Me.
With my silence.
My lies.
My fear.
I watched her walk away like smoke slipping through fingers, and I didn’t move. I stayed seated with a girl I didn’t want on my lap and a drink I didn’t taste in my hand, pretending I could be the kind of man who feels nothing.
And now?
Now she’s in my bones.
In my bloodstream.
In the pulse behind every nightmare.
Now she’s the one ghost I can’t outrun.
What I did to her wasn’t just a mistake.
It was a choice.
And I’ll never forgive myself for it.
I don’t remember picking up the bottle.
