Even Then
T
he street is quiet. Empty. The world’s still waking up this Saturday morning while I wander with no destination, no plan—just the sound of my own footsteps and the ache of betrayal pressing down with every step.
The air is sharp against my skin, the kind of cool that should wake me up, but it doesn’t. I’m still living in this fucking nightmare. My legs move fast, each step fueled by rage, pounding against the pavement like it could shake the betrayal out of me.How could he? How could he stand there and say nothing after everything we’ve been through?
By the time I slow down, my chest feels tight and hollow. The fire in me’s burned out, leaving nothing butthe ache. I’m not mad anymore—I’m hurt. Hurt that I gave so much of myself to someone who can't even give me honesty. Hurt that I believed in him enough to let him into my heart, only for him to stand mute when I confront him about something so serious.
I wrap my arms around myself walking back in the direction of home, my feet dragging against the sidewalk now. The streets are still quiet—the kind of quiet that makes you feel small—and I hate how much it mirrors what’s inside me. When the house comes into view, I stop and stare at it like it’s nothing more than a shell now.
It’s just a reminder of everything that fell apart. My heart aches from the realization that I don’t even know who I’m fighting for anymore.
I push the door open slowly and step inside, sadness sitting heavy on my shoulders. The living room looks different. Clean. The cups are gone, the counters wiped, the floor clear. He must’ve finished it while I was gone. The sight should make me feel lighter, but instead, it just presses more weight onto my chest. He cleaned up the house, but not what he broke.
I move slowly down the hall, my slippers whispering against the hardwood until I push open the door to my room. He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, hands hanging together like dead weight. His eyes stay fixed on the floor, like the answer is hiding somewhere down there.
When his eyes meet mine, his expression bends into something I can’t fully read—disappointment, maybe shame—but none of it matters. Because all I see when I look at him is everything I lost trying to love him.
I slip past him and lie down, eyes locked on the ceiling hoping it’ll keep me from falling apart. But the silence in the room is too weighted, and the voice in my chest is screaming. The tears come slow at first, rolling from the corners of myeyes into my hairline—then faster, slipping down my cheeks until I can taste the salt on my lips. I don’t bother wiping them away. What’s the point? It’s not like crying’s going to magically fix any of this. I just let them fall, staring up at the ceiling, wondering how everything I thought I had could tear open in a single night. My emotions have perfect timing—when I finally want to stay strong, they decide to put on a show.
I let out a shaky breath that sounds more like a laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. Just pain hiding under sarcasm, the only thing I have left that still feels like control.
Still on the corner of the bed, I hear him exhale—heavy and uneven. His voice follows, rough and low, like it hurts just to get the words out. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t look at him, but he keeps going, the words tumbling out like he’s been choking on them for the whole fifteen minutes it took me to calm down outside.
“Everything you heard… it’s true.” His voice cracks on the last word, and this time he doesn’t try to hide it. “The girl—that’s pregnant—iscarrying my baby. I was with her a few months before I met you. I thought it was over, but… I didn’t end it right. Then she told me she was pregnant the same week I met you at that party.”
He drags a shaky hand down his face, voice trembling. “I didn’t tell you because… I didn’t know how to. I don’t even know what to do about the situation myself. I figured if I ignored it, maybe it would all just… go away.”
He thought his baby and the mother of his child would just go away?
He sighs, frustrated. “I didn’t plan on being a father so soon. I didn’t plan on falling for you so fast either—but I did. Hard. And by the time I realized how deep I was in, it was too late. I didn’t know how to tell you without losing you.You gotta understand—I’m just trying to protect what we have.”
His words hang heavy between us. The silence after each one feels like a bruise forming in the air.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says finally, voice breaking completely. “You’ve been nothing but good to me. Better than I ever deserved. I know I fucked this up, and I know sorry doesn’t fix anything, but I need you to know—I mean every word I’ve ever said to you. None of this is fake.”
He swallows hard, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m not asking you to let me stay. I just… I just want you to forgive me.”
I close my eyes, the tears streaming faster now, hot against my skin. My chest hurts like my heart’s trying to claw its way out.
His voice fades into the silence, but it stays lodged under my skin—his guilt, his pain, his brokenness. And I almost believe him. But belief doesn’t change what he did or how I feel.
? ? ?
It’s been almost a month, and I still haven’t really spoken to Levy. I respond when I have to—short words, clipped sentences—but for the most part, I’m keeping my distance. I don’t even know why I let him stay. Comfort, maybe. Or maybe it’s easier than admitting how empty I’ll feel without him.
He, on the other hand, has been trying everything. Flowers left on the bed—small bouquets like the ones he used to surprise me with when we first started dating.
He lingers near me more, continuously asking if I need anything, complimenting me hourly. He even started paying attention more—looking me in the eye when I talk, offering to run errands, brushing against me softly like he’s trying to remind me of what we had. Sometimes it feels good—I won’t lie.
Part of me wants to let it sink in, to let it soften the tension inside me. But I know the only reason he’s doing it is because he got caught, and that keeps the wall up.
He’s desperate, and I can feel it in every gesture. But even with all the sweet gestures, all I can think about isher.The mother of his unborn child. I wonder if he’s starting to regret all of this. If he wishes he was with her, building a family, instead of clinging to whatever scraps he and I are holding onto.
The questions chew at me, but I can’t bring myself to voice them. So I let them spin in my head day after day, while the silence between us gets thicker, no matter how hard he tries to chip at it.
