Apparently not.
Apparently, it ends with a text and a ring emoji he probably thought was clever.
I tip the bottle straight into my mouth. No glass. No dignity. Just three gulps of warm merlot and the sharp burn of fury settling behind my ribs.
I don’t care. I’m not sad. I’mmad.
I hope his phone explodes. Preferably while it’s still in his hand.
Anyway, Jasper is in Milan for two months. Something about a runway show, a celebrity client, and a man named Stefano who wears turtlenecks and calls him “baby” in Italian. I stoppedlistening after he promised I could use his place if I ever had a meltdown.
Which I’m currently doing. With style.
The key? Still hidden exactly where he showed me back in high school, the day he made me swear to be his emergency plant-waterer, emotional support human, and occasional alibi. Jasper’s lived in ten different places since then, but no matter the zip code, he always hides a spare the same way—taped behind the intercom panel under a sticker that says “FBI Surveillance Van #47.”
I texted him first. I swear I did. I just… didn’t wait for a reply before letting myself in.
I needed the karaoke. And the wine. And the echoey silence of a place that wasn’t mine, where my sadness didn’t have a return address.
The Bluetooth speaker kicks into the next track, and my brain doesn’t stop it in time.
“And I… will always love youuuuuu—”
I belt the first line with all the emotional finesse of a raccoon falling into a trash can. My voice cracks. My heart does too.
I spin dramatically in the center of the living room, blanket billowing behind me like some tragic, drunk superhero.
This is what healing looks like. I read that somewhere. You have tofeelyour grief. You have to let it sing.
Whitney fades. I collapse onto the couch like a wounded Victorian widow and pick up my phone. No new messages from Evan.
Of course not.
Just a memory from Facebook:“Six years ago today. You and Evan at Coney Island.”He’s kissing my cheek. I’m smiling like a fool.
I close the app. Immediately regret checking it.
I sniff, mutter something unholy, and reach for the half-empty wine bottle—
Then freeze.
The front door opens.
Keys jingle. Hinge creaks.
I sit up, slowly. Blinking. Surely Jasper wouldn’t—? Wait. No. He’s in Milan. He posted an Instagram story three hours ago with a shirtless man feeding him grapes.
So, who—?
A man walks in.
Tall. Dark brown-haired. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a black coat, and that expression people have when they find a raccoon in their kitchen.
We make eye contact.
He is not Jasper.
He is notanyoneI know. And he is… terrifying.
