I don’t know if I’m angry or grieving or just stupidly hopeful in spite of everything that happened.
I don’t know who I am without him.
And I don’t want that to be true.
“I just… I can’t get hurt again,” I say to myself. “The only way to stop the hurt is to never go near him again. Right?”
The silence in the room doesn’t answer.
It just waits.
Like it knows a storm is still coming.
I shouldn’t do it.
Every part of me knows I shouldn’t do it.
But I’m pacing the room, heart pounding, hands shaking, brain spinning, and temptation wins. I grab my phone off the bed.
“Don’t,” I whisper to myself.
I open socials anyway.
And it hits like a punch straight to the ribs.
My name.
My tag.
My humiliation—still trending.
Still circulating.
Then the photos.
Leo.
At a party last night.
Cigar in one hand.
Whiskey in the other.
Girls draped across his lap.
One with her lips on his neck.
Another hanging off his shoulder like she owns him.
The room tilts.
My stomach flips like I might throw up.
He was leaving me voicemails that he loves me—whilethatwas happening?
Rage detonates inside me.
Hot. Violent. Blinding.
