Not anymore.
I fold the contract slowly and place it back on the bed.
My reflection catches in the mirror—calm, immaculate, unreadable. No cracks. No tells.
But my body remembers.
I remember the heartbreak.
How I reached for him obsessively—day and night—like if I tried hard enough, I could pull him back into existence. I called. Texted. Left messages that went unanswered. I searched for him in crowds, in galleries, in every art exhibition that mattered. I stood in rooms filled with his work, waiting to feel his presence behind me.
He never came.
He blocked me.
The realization landed slowly at first, then all at once—violent, absolute. The way your chest caves in when the truth finally sharpens into focus. He hadn’t disappeared. He hadn’t been busy. He hadn’t hesitated.
He’d discarded me.
Used me. Took what he wanted. Then erased me like I’d never mattered.
My heart didn’t just break; it shattered. Cleanly. Brutally. The kind of break that changes the architecture of a person forever.
It took a full year to recover.
One year to stop refreshing his name online.
One year to stop checking art listings and hoping—pathetically—that I’d stumble into him by accident.
One year to stop waking up with his absence pressing against my ribs.
The worst part?
His career exploded.
Everywhere I turned, there he was. Magazine spreads. Gallery headlines. Praise layered on praise. His art grew more revered, more valuable, while I learned how to swallow the taste of him lingering in my mouth like a ghost.
Eventually, I stopped hoping.
Stopped searching.
Not because I forgave him.
Because I knew something else.
One day, I would exact my revenge.
For five years, I built myself into a fortress.
Brick by brick.
Self-possession.
Success.
A mask so elegant it became art in itself.
Designer suits replaced vulnerability. Critical acclaim replaced longing. My softness hardened into precision. My pain learned how to sit quietly beneath my skin without ever showing its teeth.
