Third line:
“Now she’s somebody else’s muse.”
I slam my laptop shut like it bit me.
My pulse is a hurricane.
“Oh my god,” I whisper into my empty office.
And then I make the catastrophic mistake of opening social media.
Hashtags are trending:
#TeamMark #HeartbreakerAnnabelle #BryceVsMark
I scroll faster.
People are dissecting lyrics. Half-truths. Guesses. Straight-up lies.
“Was she cheating with Bryce all along?”
“Mark writes poetry. Bryce punches things.”
“Athletes can’t compete with artists emotionally.”
A slow, cold panic runs through me.
I stand.
I sit again.
I bury my face in my hands.
There's a knock on my door.
Of course, it's Bryce.
Because the universe enjoys my humiliation.
“Annabelle?”
His voice is warm. Low. Too gentle for my exposed nerves.
I consider jumping out the window.
“Come in,” I manage.
He walks in, wearing sweats and a backward cap.
He looks unfairly good for someone who just came from the gym.
“Morning,” he says softly.
“Hi.”
He studies my face. “You okay?”
No.
