She looks so alive.
But Callum's eyes are on her, the expression on his face making me feel sick.
His look is pure love.
The look on his face is like he can't believe someone like her exists, like she's a miracle. And God, she really is. She's a miracle I threw away for nothing.
For fear.
But Callum is holding her tightly like he never wants to let go.
My stomach rolls violently, and I'm worried I'm about to vomit all over my lap, so I swipe my phone—bad idea. I barely make it into the tiny bathroom before I throw up into the toilet, dry heaving until my stomach aches.
The photo is now seared into my brain, and I have to take a couple of deep breaths before I look at it again. The nausea rolls, but there's nothing left in my stomach to empty.
Ifeelempty because what I'm looking at is a photo of Callumand Sophie kissing.
His hands cradle her face, holding her as if she's precious, and the look on her face, her lips pressed firmly against his, reads pure joy.
The kiss is not erotic, it's not lewd, it's not a sloppy open-mouth passion-filled makeout.
Fucking hell, it's worse.
It's so tender it feels obscene. It's gentle and loving and romantic and so fucking intimate I have to bite my fist so I don't cry out from the pain shredding open my chest, myheart.It's a tearing type of pain, like someone ripping something away I've tried desperately to hold onto—hope.
He's holding the face I once had the privilege of holding, kissing the lips that I once was able to kiss whenever I wanted. The lips that whispered that they loved me at one point in time.
I feel too hot all of a sudden. The cable knit—the blue one Sophie always loved—feels like it's choking me, and I have to pull at the collar for some relief. It doesn't come. There's no relief from this, nothing that can make me feel better about what I'm looking at.
The love of my life is kissing someone else, someone who clearly loves her. And from the article and the pictures... goddamnit, she loves him too.
Sophie has moved on.
Not only that, she looks happy—happier than I've ever seen her, even at our best.
And it feels like a fucking death knell.
???
"Do you think you performed love?"
I'm still wrecked, feeling completely hollowed out while sitting in the chair across from Dr. Forseti. She's watching mewith soft, inquisitive eyes, her pen spinning slowly between her fingers like she's tuning an instrument.
My body feels like it's running on autopilot, but I still sit and think about her question, though I'm confused by her meaning.
Performed love?
Of course, I loved Sophie—hell, I still love her. My reaction to the picture should prove that. I think about her every day, from the moment I wake up to when I fall asleep. I miss her so much it hurts.
We shared a whole life together, including multiple apartments, various experiences, vacations, holidays, and big adult purchases. We were planning a wedding. We paid bills. We shared our bodies and our thoughts.
I loved Sophie Bracken more than I've ever lovedanyone.
Noneof it was a performance.
Except for your lies,my thoughts jab me. I grit my teeth, curling my hands into fists and feeling my nails bite into my palms.
My lies, my deception, my betrayal, my cheating, my fucking mistakes.
