I give her a small, exhausted nod.
She sets the mug down on the nightstand, then sits on the edge of the bed beside me. Her weight shifts the mattress just enough to make me feel tethered again.
She looks at me for a moment.
"Why don’t you take a shower while I put a pizza in the oven,” she suggests.
I manage a whisper. “You’re a really good friend.”
She snorts softly. “I’m a moderately functioning adult with a stocked pantry and a well-earned hatred for emotionally constipated men.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
Instead, I nod again and whisper, “Thank you.”
She pats my knee gently. “I’ll leave you alone. Holler if you need anything.”
Once she’s gone, the silence wraps around me like a second skin—soft, heavy, inescapable. I sit there for a moment longer, staring at the closed door, then push myself to my feet, limbs slow and aching. I turn the knob in the shower and let the water run, then strip off my clothes and step under the spray—not hot enough to burn, just warm enough to pretend it can wash this off me.
The water hits my skin, slides down my back, and for a few seconds, I just stand there, arms limp at my sides, letting it fall over me. Like maybe if I stay here long enough, it’ll rinse away the ache in my chest. The shame. The sting of remembering I saidI love youto someone who didn’t say it back.
The memory comes in sharp, unforgiving pieces.
My voice, soft and full of hope:I love you.
His stillness. The way he held me tighter, but didn’t speak. That pause. That long, echoing silence.
Like he was holding his breath.
The sob catches me off guard.
It punches out of me, sudden and sharp, and I double over, pressing both hands to the shower wall like it can hold me up.
Then the next one comes.
And the next.
Ugly, shaking, heart-splitting sobs that wrench their way out of my chest like they’ve been building for days.
My knees hit the tile. I sit under the spray, soaking wet and unraveling, and I cry harder than I have since my grandma died.
I curl into myself, one arm wrapped around my knees, the other clenched against the wall as the water rushes over me.
Maybe he never saw me. Not really.
Maybe I was just…convenient.
Someone easy to manage. Someone who didn’t ask for too much. Who could play the part, smile for the cameras, keep things clean and uncomplicated.
Just someone who could be picked up and put down again without consequence.
And God, doesn’t that just wreck me?
Because I let myself believe I could beirreplaceable.
I press my forehead against the wall, throat raw from crying, chest aching.
