The memory of him stands in front of me like a shadow, his face so sharp and cold, like a wall of ice that now separates us. The way he stood there, telling me to leave, telling me I meant nothing. It echoes in my ears. His words—like knives, like broken promises—cut through me every time I try to breathe.
I scrub my face with the palm of my hand, trying to erase the tears that are still fresh on my skin, but I can’t make them go away. They’re still there, lingering beneath the surface, ready to spill again. I press my hands against the wall, the cold tile biting into my skin as I let my forehead rest against it. My body is exhausted, my muscles aching from the weight of grief, but there’s no relief.
Ashton. His name is like a constant hum in my brain, a song I can’t stop hearing no matter how loud the water gets or how hard I scrub at my skin. It doesn’t stop. The memory of him. The way he looked at me sometimes, when the world felt right, when we were connected, when everything felt like it was meant to be. And then, the coldness. The way he shattered everything, as though it was just a game to him, and I was nothing but a piece on his board.
I shudder, the sting of the water like a slap to my skin, but it’s not enough to shake the memories loose. The warmth of his body, the way he held me close at night when I thought maybe—just maybe—we were something real. His touch was always so gentle, like he cared, like he wanted to protect me.
But then he broke me.
I slide down the wall, my body slumping to the floor of the shower, my legs giving out beneath me. The water is so hot now, it’s starting to burn, but I barely feel it. It’s all just noise—everything is noise. The drip, drip, drip of the water. The soft hum of the world outside. His face. His eyes. His words.
I meant nothing.
I shake my head, clenching my fists so hardmy nails bite into the palms of my hands. No, no, I don’t believe it. He can’t have meant it. He couldn’t. The way he touched me, the way he kissed me. It meant something, didn’t it? He never said he loved me, but it felt like he did. It felt like we had something real. Didn’t we?
I pull my knees up to my chest, curling in on myself, but the space inside me is too wide, too cold. No matter how tightly I press my arms around myself, no matter how deep I bury my face in my knees, the ache remains. It’s a hole, and it’s getting deeper, threatening to swallow me whole.
A part of me wishes I could forget. A part of me wishes I could erase everything—erase him from my mind, from my heart. But I can’t. It’s like he’s etched into me. A scar I can’t pick at, can’t tear away.
I close my eyes, and even in the darkness behind my lids, I see him. I see his face, the pain in his eyes when he told me to leave. He was hurting too, wasn’t he? Or maybe it was all just an act. A performance.
I feel my tears mingling with the water, flowing down my cheeks and mingling with the rivulets of hot water that streak down my body. They don’t feel like mine. They feel like his. His heartache, his rage, his loss.
I want to scream, but I don’t. I want to break, but I don’t. Instead, I just sit there, shivering in the silence, feeling the walls of my world closing in.
How could he do this? How could he make me feel so alive, so real, only to rip it all away like it meant nothing?
And yet, somehow, the pain of it all is familiar. It’s a pain I’ve lived with before. A pain that lingers in the quiet spaces of my soul. I just never thought it would come from him.
The steam is so thick now that it’s hard to see, but all I can think about is Ashton, his presence, his touch, and the way itfelt like home. Now, it’s just a memory I can’t reach, and no amount of hot water will wash it away.
I finally stand up, my legs shaky, my body weak. I reach out to turn off the water, but my hand lingers for a moment, fingers just grazing the faucet, as if I’m waiting for something. Waiting for something to change. Waiting for him to come back and tell me it was all just a mistake. But I know better. I know it’s over.
I just don’t know how to let go.
26
DOVE
The living room feels like something straight out of a Hallmark movie, but without the picture-perfect ending. The golden glow of the fairy lights from the Christmas tree twinkles in the corner, casting a soft, warm light that flickers across the room. I can smell the scent of cinnamon and fresh-baked cookies wafting through the air, mingling with the faint trace of pine from the tree. The window is fogged up from the cold outside, a soft layer of frost clinging to the edges, but inside, everything feels like a cocoon. Cozy. Safe.
Christina’s thrown a pile of mismatched blankets on the couch, a fortress of softness where we’re both curled up, her feet tucked into thick, woolen socks, while mine are buried under a mess of fleece and knit. The air is filled with the quiet hum of the Christmas movie on the screen, a cheesy romantic comedy that feels too syrupy sweet, too perfect. They kiss under the mistletoe, their love story a flawless series of misunderstandings that magically resolve with a dramatic, over-the-top declaration of love.
I roll my eyes, feeling the cynicism slip from my mouth before I can stop it. “No one actually does that in real life.”
Christina looks over at me, her eyes narrowing with a mischievous glint. “What? Kiss under the mistletoe? Or declare their undying love in a public setting for the whole world to witness?”
I sigh dramatically, my fingers playing with the hem of the blanket. “Both. It’s all too… perfect. Too fake. Real life isn’t like that.” My voice falters as I say it, but I mask it with another eye-roll, as if that will somehow distract from the way my chest tightens at the thought of what I’ve lost.
Christina snorts, shaking her head as she leans back into the couch, stretching out like a lazy cat. “Oh, please, you don’t fool me, Dove. I see the way you looked at him. You were practically glowing around, Ashton, remember?” She winks, but the teasing laced in her words only makes my stomach twist.
I groan, sinking further into the couch. “You know, for the record, I didn’t ask for a front-row seat to watch my entire life implode.”
“You didn’t ask for Ashton to make you swoon over him either, did you?”
Christina teases, throwing a cushion at me, her laughter filling the space. She always knows how to make me smile, even when I don’t want to. Even when I don’t deserve to.
I look down at my hands, fidgeting with the blanket, my thoughts spiraling in all the places I don’t want them to go. “I don’t believe in love anymore, Christina,” I mutter, my voice a little quieter than before. I feel the weight of those words settle in the pit of my stomach, sinking deep, like a stone dropped into a well.
