Only the heavy clink it made when it hit the counter, the slow slosh of amber against glass, and the burn that clawed its way down my throat like the kind of punishment I’d been begging for long before tonight.
Good.
I fucking deserve it.
I welcome the ache, the sting, the way my chest tightens with every swallow like something buried deep inside me is collapsing in on itself. I welcome the numbness creeping through my veins, the sick, steady thud behind my ribs whenever her name tries to claw up my throat and I drown it with another mouthful of whiskey.
I see her everywhere.
Every fucking blink, she’s there.
Standing in those ridiculous bunny ears with eyes too wide, too sad, looking at me like I was worth something. Like I was someone. Like I wasn’t made of the wars I’ve fought or the lies I’ve told or the scars still burning whenever I breathe too deep.
And I ruined it.
Of course I fucking did.
Because that’s what I do, isn’t it?
Break things.
Shatter anything good with blood on my hands and a mouth full of sins I’ll never speak aloud; tear apart softness like it’s the enemy; destroy anything that makes me feel like there might still be something human left in me.
And her face—fuck—her face when I told her to leave. When I told her she was a mistake. When I looked at her like she was nothing. Like I hadn’t memorised the curve of her lips or the sound she made when I kissed her like I needed her more than oxygen.
She looked at me like she was trying not to break.
And I just watched.
I stood there in the dark like the heartless bastard I’ve become and watched the girl I couldn’t stop thinking about shatter behind her eyes.
That blonde?
I don’t even remember her name. I don’t remember the taste of her tongue or the sound of her laugh or anything beyond the sick, hollow hope that maybe if I fucked someone else, I’d stop feeling like my ribs were caving in.
It didn’t work.
Didn’t touch the ache.
Didn’t even scratch the surface.
Because all I could see was Cassandra.
Her lips.
Her eyes.
The way her smile didn’t quite reach when she walked over with the tray, pretending it didn’t kill her to look at me. Pretending I hadn’t just gutted her with a single, cruel look.
She was breaking.
And she thought she had to hide it from me.
I wanted to be cruel.
I wanted to push her so far away she’d never come near me again.
I wanted her to hate me — because hate doesn’t grieve. Hate survives. Hate doesn’t get buried with the boys you never brought home.
