I love you.
That's what I should have said. Three words that would have made everything else irrelevant.
But I didn't say them. And now it's too late.
The TV drones in the background, cycling through late-night coverage of the scandal. My face appears again and again, frozen in moments that look damning under scrutiny. Laughing too hard at something Korgan said. Touching his arm with deliberate familiarity. Glancing at cameras with what could be calculation or could just be awareness.
Every gesture becomes evidence. Every smile becomes manipulation.
I turn off the TV and sit in darkness, listening to the silence where my phone should be ringing. Where Korgan's voice should be telling me we'll get through this together.
Instead, there's nothing.
And for the first time since this whole nightmare started, I wonder if maybe they're right. Maybe I did manipulate him. Maybe the feelings I thought were real were just my heart manufacturing justification for what my head had already decided.
Maybe I'm exactly the calculating opportunist they say I am.
The thought follows me to bed, where I lie awake until dawn, staring at the ceiling and replaying every moment with Korgan through this new, ugly lens.
By morning, I've almost convinced myself that losing him might be exactly what I deserve.
I draft my withdrawal letter at 4 AM, sitting at my kitchen table with cold coffee and every lost contract pressing down on my shoulders.
Dear Heart of the Horde Production Team,
Effective immediately, I am withdrawing from the show. Recent events have made it clear that my participation is no longer beneficial to anyone involved, least of all myself.
Professional. Clean. Final.
I delete it and start again.
To the producers who thought destroying my life would make good television?—
Too angry. They'd leak it, spin it, make me look unstable.
Delete.
I quit.
Too simple. Doesn't capture the sharp edge of betrayal lodged between my ribs.
I close the laptop and stare at my phone instead. Still nothing from Korgan. Thirty-six hours of silence that speaks louder than any accusation.
The sunrise creeps through my window, turning everything the color of old bruises. My apartment looks different in this light. Smaller. The walls closing in with each passing hour.
Maya calls at seven.
"Don't make any decisions yet."
"Good morning to you too."
"I'm serious, Trin. I know you're thinking about quitting. I know that seems like the easy way out right now."
"Easy?" I laugh, hollow. "There's nothing easy about admitting defeat."
"It's not defeat, it's strategic retreat. And it's exactly what they want."
"Who's they? The producers? The trolls? The entire internet?"
