The injustice of it.
Of a man who could wreck something so beautiful and still sleep at night.
Blake always had a talent for that, leaving ruin and calling it love. He’d grin when people warned her. “They’re just jealous,” he’d say.
No, Blake. Not jealousy.
Clarity.
I remember being seventeen watching him kiss her behind the gym, her back pressed to the wall, the world spinning around them.
She was light then.
Wild and full of faith.
The kind of girl who believed love could heal anything if she just gave enough of herself.
And he used that belief like a leash.
Wrapped it around her neck and called it devotion.
Even now, he still does
through paper, through memory, through the way her breath stutters when his name appears on a glowing screen.
It kills me.
Not because I want to take his place
but because I want her to forget the version of herself that learned to flinch.
To unlearn the language of pain he taught her.
When she folds the letter, I see it, the breaking.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just a quiet, devastating collapse.
Her shoulders curl in.
Her hand covers her mouth.
And through that tinted glass, I swear I can feel her heartbreak echo.
Like something holy just shattered.
And maybe, just maybe, it needed to.
She’s been half-alive since he left.
Breathing but not really living.
Caging herself in routine, calling it strength.
But this pain it’s real.
It’s the kind that carves space for new air.
