My heart kicks up, my brain racing just as fast. I told myself this was harmless, that takinghiscalls every night didn’t mean anything. But it does.
Ineedthem.
Like a fix, a dose ofhimto get me through the day.
And now, without it, I feel like I’m unraveling.
Maybe this washisplan all along—to talk to me, get whatheneeded, and move on. Maybe hearing me finally speak was enough forhimto say his final goodbye.
Oh God.
My chest tightens, and I sit up, unplugging my phone with shaky hands.
Then I stand.
Then I pace.
Staring at the screen, willing it to light up withhisname,hispicture,anything.
But it stays dark.
Half an hour passes.
Nausea churns in my stomach, and I drop onto the edge of the bed, gripping my phone like it might slip through my fingers along with my sanity. It’s happening all over again. I’m losinghim. I’m back at square one, and every bit of progress I thought I made is crumbling around me.
Tears sting my eyes, blurring the screen, but still, nothing.
I get up.
Pace.
Walk in circles.
Waiting for a call that never comes.
With every step, my frustration builds.
An hour.
An hour!
Goddammit!I was going to talk tohimtonight.Hehad me.Hemight have even convinced me to seehimin two weeks.
But not now.
Now,hecan go straight tofucking hell.
My blood boils. My thoughts spiral.
I bethe’shigh somewhere, tangled up in a filthy threesome withhisdisgustingly overbearing brother, completely forgettingabout me.Hegot whathewanted—one last word—and that was enough to let me go.
Well, fuck you, bastard!
My hands shake as I swipe to my contacts, findhisname, and press the dial button.
I can’t wait to givehima piece of my mind.
I put the phone to my ear. “Sorry, this call cannot currently be connected.”
