According to everyone else around me who knows Alek and me, he's been reaching out to them, too, trying to find where I am.
If I matter so little that he can’t even remember I still own the damn house I lived in before moving in with him, then he has no right to know where I am now.
I informed everyone of that little fact in a firm voice, too.
Let someone try to spill my secret to him, and I won’t blink before cutting them out of my life. I’m done playing games withAlek. I poured so much of myself into these three years, and it meant nothing. I meant nothing. When I begged him to stay, he walked away. That told me everything. I was always just a stand-in for the woman he really wanted. Now that she’s available, he can finally have the real deal instead of the cheap imitation he settled for.
The second Alek left with David for Jerica’s, I started shutting myself off from him. At first, it felt empowering, almost as if I were finally taking control. But then the ache set in more deeply than I expected. Now, the loneliness is sharper than I'd imagined, but I keep promising myself that each day will sting a little less. All I have to do is wake up and breathe. Someday, I’ll open my eyes and not ache for his arms or wake with swollen, tear-stained eyes.
As I break down the last box, I scan my house. My heart sinks under the weight of loss. There’s not a single trace left of what Alek and I once shared.
There was a reason I listened to my gut when it told me not to put my house up for sale like Alek wanted me to. I pushed it off, saying I'd rather rent it out to have a side income. I didn't even do that, though, because something was telling me I'd need it sooner rather than later.
Maybe I owe my intuition a stiff drink. It was the only part of me that saw the truth I was too damn stubborn to face.
Until I was shattered and raw.
With the day stretching empty ahead of me, I pour a glass of wine and slip into my office. It’s really a den I’ve claimed as my creative corner, and honestly, I missed it while living at Alek’s. His place was spacious, sure, but it never felt as warm or inviting as this little sanctuary.
My guitar sits on its stand beside the cozy chair in front of the fireplace. My writing notebook waits for me on the side table within easy reach. There's a beanbag chair on the floor in frontof the table. It gives me more breathing and playing room when I'm using the guitar.
That’s where I go now, driven by the urge to drain this ache from my veins and pour it onto the page.
This has been my sanctuary for so long that I didn't realize it was missing until I stepped foot back in here today. Alek knows what I do for a living, but he doesn't truly understand how successful I've been at it. So many songs of mine have hit high on the charts for the artists I write for, and many of them have gone on to win awards. We've only seldom talked about it because he didn't seem too interested in it, to be honest. He never asked me questions about it. He never gave me the chance to open up and share my passion with him. It didn't exactly fill me with warm fuzzies, but I chalked it up to him not having as much interest in music. I rarely heard him listen to it, which solidified that assumption for me.
It hurt not to share what I loved most with him. I kept telling myself we had bigger problems. Still, whenever I overheard him talk to David about the work he and Jerica did at their father’s business, my chest tightened. He might not care about my world, but he’s definitely invested in hers.
Sure. I could brush it off as it only being because they work together, but considering how he feels about her, it's deeper than that.
I lift my glass to my mouth to take another sip of wine, but blink down at the emptiness inside of it.
Huh. When the hell did that happen, and why the hell didn't I bring the bottle?
I double back to the kitchen, topping off my glass and grabbing the whole damn bottle. If this song is going where I think it is, I’ll need every last drop.
After that, I’ll need my best friend’s shoulder to cry on while we brainstorm every possible way to rip this love for him out of me.
I snatch the wine bottle from the cooler, fill my glass to the brim, then take a long, defiant swig straight from the bottle before sealing it up again.
I don’t stop until I’m gasping for air. Thankfully, no one’s here to witness the most unladylike belch I’ve ever unleashed.
With a heavy sigh, I cork the bottle, grab my glass, and retreat to my little oasis for the night.
Setting the drinks on the table, I fetch my guitar and settle onto the bean bag. My notebook joins me, and once everything’s in place, I curl into the lotus position, ready to let the music take over.
I reach for my notebook, flipping through worn pages until I find a fresh one, then tuck the pencil between my teeth like a ritual.
Cradling the guitar’s neck close, I let my fingers settle on the strings, close my eyes, and hum. This is how I always begin, unlocking the hidden corridors of my mind and letting the music pour through.
Soon, my fingers dance along, coaxing out a melody I’ve never heard before, adjusting and shaping it until it fits. For the next two hours, my pencil races across the page, spilling the raw truths of my heart in graphite.
Words get written and then erased when they don't fit.
Chords are switched to better fit certain lyrics.
Until the song finally comes together.
When the final chord fades into silence, I toss my pencil onto the table and swipe at my eyes with the hem of my shirt.
