I thought I could trust him. I thought he was different. But in the end, I was just another part of his twisted obsession. Something he could own, something he could manipulate, something he could control.
I roll onto my side, pulling the covers over my head, hiding from the world. The silence of the room feels suffocating, but it’s better than hearing the echoes of his voice in my mind.
I try to block out the images of him, but they won’t stop. His touch, his words, his face. All of it. Everything he said to me, every sweet thing he did, everything he made me believe in—all of it was a lie.
And now I’m left alone, with nothing but the pain and the memory of a love that was never real.
25
DOVE
The bed feels like a prison; the covers tangled around me, trapping me in a suffocating embrace. My body aches, my chest heavy with the weight of the grief that seems to flood every inch of me. The tears won’t stop, and I don’t know how to make them. The darkness in the room mirrors the darkness in my mind, and I curl into myself, burying my face into the pillow, trying to hide from the memories that keep crashing into me like waves against the shore.
I remember the first time I walked into that room, that room he built just for me. The library. The one place I thought I could find peace, a place where I could escape, where the noise of everything else would fall away. It was perfect—every corner, every detail meticulously designed with my comfort in mind. The soft velvet chairs, the shelves filled with books, the towering walls that seemed to rise up around me like a fortress. But it wasn’t just the physical beauty of it. It was theintention. He made it for me.
Why would he do that if I meantnothing?
Why would he create something so beautiful, so personal, just for me if I was nothing more than a fleeting distraction? He had given me something precious, something I didn’t even know I wanted, something that made me feelspecial. In those moments, when I sank into the softness of the armchair, surrounded by the scent of leather-bound books and the warmth of the room, I felt…wanted.
I thought he saw me. I thought I mattered.
But now… now I’m just lying here in the dark, and it’s like none of it ever mattered at all.
The images come flooding back, uninvited, relentless. His hands, gentle but firm as they pulled me close. His voice, soft in my ear as he whispered promises I thought were real. The way his eyes would soften when they met mine, like I was the only thing that mattered in that moment. I can still feel the warmth of his touch, the heat of his breath against my skin, the way he would trace his fingers over my arm like he was marking me, claiming me.
But why? Why would he do that if I was nothing?
I remember the mornings we spent together. The way he would look at me, like I was the one thing he wanted more than anything. I remember laughing with him in the kitchen, our easy banter as we shared quiet, intimate moments. How could he be so… kind one moment, and socoldthe next?
The image of him standing in front of me, telling me to leave, it cuts through me like a knife. The way he shut me out, his eyes hardening like a shield. His words, so final, so brutal. I try to remember the softness, the sweetness, the way he made me feel, but it’s drowned out by the ache of what he’s done. I want to hold on to the moments where I felt like I mattered, but they slip through my fingers like sand.
How could he do this to me?
The library… that beautiful, sacred place he created for me, the one where I thought I could escape, now feels like a cruel reminder. How could he build that for me, give me something so…intimate… only to turn around and break me?
I want to scream. I want to run to him, demand answers, beg him to explain why he destroyed everything he built. But I know he wouldn’t care. I know it’s pointless.
Every memory I have of him—every kiss, every soft whisper, every stolen moment—now feels like a lie. And the weight of it presses down on me, suffocating me with the truth that I was never real to him.
I can still hear his voice in my head, echoing over and over again.You mean nothing to me, Dove.
Those words rip through me, and I feel the tears start again, hot and heavy, flooding down my face. He was never mine to begin with, was he? He was never someone who would let me stay. He wanted to break me, to control me, and I let him. I let him weave me into his world, made me believe in something I should have known was never real.
The room feels too small, like the walls are closing in on me, suffocating me with the memories of a love that never existed. My heart aches with the weight of everything I’ve lost, everything I thought I had.
I press my hands to my eyes, trying to stop the tears, but it’s no use. They come faster, harder.
How could he do this to me?
I thought I knew him. I thought I could trust him. But in the end, I was just another plaything to him. Another thing to use, to break.
And I hate myself for believing in him.
Christina’s voicecuts through the quiet of my room like a knife, sharp and insistent.
“Dove!” she calls, her footsteps thundering down the hallway, too loud for my liking. I hear her outside the door, the way she slams it open without even knocking—classic Christina.
“Are you even alive in there?” she continues, her voice now much too close.
