Then—
He steps back.
Mouths “I’m so sorry.”
And walks away.
Just like before.
Hours pass.
Carrie calls.
Dane texts.
Blake vanishes again.
Except… not completely. Not to Pandora.
He sends her a photo. The flowers. The bear. My favourite crackers and cheese. Bubbly rosé. A caption:
“After a hard day, this is what I’d do for you. A real man takes care of his girl.”
“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach… maybe that works for women too?”
“So, I have your heart?”
“Not yet. But maybe you’re getting close.”
“What would it take?”
“Turtles and love, sun and sea, books and art, wine tours and rain dances.”
I freeze.
The three lines float for what feels like a lifetime, then vanish into nothingness. I re-read what I sent and curse myself. Too close. Too Penn. Too fucking obvious.
Fuck’s sake, Pandora.
I scold her like she’s someone else, a stranger I stitched together from smoke and lies. But she’s not. She’s me. And the chaos of her collides with the art of this cruel game, and now Blake, my Blake, is falling in love with a ghost. With Pandora. Withme wearing another face. And it’s hijacking every inch of my fractured heart.
His reply flickers across the screen: “Wow. All women seem to like the same things. So weird.”
I can see him in my mind, biting his lip the way he does when he’s thinking, head tilted, brows furrowed. My pulse stutters hard against my throat. Maybe this is it. Maybe he’s piecing it together. Maybe it ends here.
“Why do you say that? How many women have you said the same things to?”
I try to lace it with coolness, a little playful bite, distraction, smoke, and mirrors. It’s so hard to lie. To pretend you’re someone else when you’ve only ever lived as one person.
His answer slides back too fast: “Ha, no one, babe, just you. But it’s oddly familiar to the woman I had before. So many things you like, she loved.”
“Before?....”I typed out fast, breath shallow.
Before what? Before you killed us? Before you snapped the spine of a love that belonged to you more than life itself? Before you shattered me, stole all of my light, and left me bleeding in the dark with nothing but cider bottles and unslept nights?
Three lines hover. My feet move without thought, carrying me down streets I don’t recognize. The night presses in, chill wrapping around me, but the streetlights hum awake, warm yellow halos buzzing like tired suns. They cast me in their false safety while his silence crushes me.
The three lines vanish.
