“Stop,” I whispered. “Please… just stop.”
But it didn’t. It never did. It kept beating and hurting and reminding me that he said it. That look on his face when he opened the door. That coldness, the kind that didn’t sound like him anymore.
I don’t want to see your face again.
The words played on a loop in my head until I could barely breathe.
He didn’t mean it.
He couldn’t have.
Right?
But what if he did?
What if everything I thought we rebuilt—the quiet dinners, the laughter, Honey, Christmas, my birthday, the little moments that made me forget how cruel he once was—what if none of it meant anything to him?
My hand curled into a fist and hit my chest again, desperate to stop the ache spreading through me.
I wanted to cry, but I was too tired.
I wanted to scream, but the sound wouldn’t come out.
The space beside me on the bed felt too empty, too wide.
No Honey curled against my legs. No low hum of his voice teasing me. No quiet warmth of someone just being there.
Just me.
Me and the echo of what I thought we were.
I turned to the side, pulling my knees up to my chest, hugging myself so tight it almost felt like someone else could be there if I squeezed hard enough.
“Why does it hurt so much?” I whispered to no one.
BecauseI loved him.
I love him.
The words wouldn’t stop circling in my head.
Over and over and over again.
Like a curse I couldn’t break.
I love him.
My lips didn’t move, but my mind screamed it.
Every breath, every heartbeat, every sting behind my eyes repeated it.
I.
Love.
him.
And I didn’t even know why.
