Two words.
I’m sorry.
They’ve been echoing in my head for the past three days.
I play with the strings of my hoodie as I stare at Leo’s message and the series of texts that follow, demanding answers from him.
Why did he share my message with his friends? Why would he let them harass me over it? Over my job? Why did he see my message and not fucking respond?
What in the ever-loving hell did I do to him to make him do this? I never hurt him. I never tried approaching him beyond dropping into his inbox. I never did anything apart from looking through the information he’s made publicly available.
The only response I’ve gotten from him is silence, and the two ticks that tell me he’s seen my turmoil and chosen to ignore it. He’s decided to let me spiral.
Sorry?Fuck.
My computer chair squeaks as I tuck my legs against my chest, shoving my heel under me. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Once the sun came out and my brain lost its ability to function, I told him that he’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever encountered, and I regretted ever reaching out to him.
It was a lie. In the back of my head, he’s still this dazzling prince who will whisk me off into the sunset. There’s just something I’m missing. A misunderstanding. Maybe he wasn’t part of what they were doing, or maybe they went behind his back—yes, this makes more sense. The Leo I know isn’t the type to do something like this, especially when he keeps to himself and is never really seen out with the rest of his team.
I wish there was something I could do to get back at him.
Gripping my phone, I try to force myself to put it down and focus on my manuscript, but it’s impossible. I haven’t been able to work. Sleep. Eat. Engage in mindless conversation with Joyce.
I’m losing my goddamn mind.
The grief has crippled me to the point of emptiness, especially now that I know he’s aware I exist. He’s left me here, alone, to mourn what we should have been but never would have. Every crush I’ve ever had has ended badly. It’s laughable that acelebrity crushhas too—so fucking brutally.
Just once I want to fall for someone and have them feel the same way as me. But the newfound knowledge that this will forever be my fate stings far more. First, my parents, and now this. I’m tired of housing the solitude that built a place in my heart when I was too young to realize that the empty space inside wasn’t just a canvas; it was loneliness.
Joyce hums to the music blasting through the sound system as she gets ready for work. “You sure you don’t want me to order any takeout for you? Like soup or some shit? Google said that’s what people on their deathbeds usually eat.”
I offer her the most reassuring smile I can muster. “I’ll be fine.” I won’t be. It’s been three days, and I haven’t found a way to dig myself out of the pit Leo pushed me into.
I’m so pathetic.
I’ve blamed my sour state on stress-induced illness. It isn’t entirely a lie.
“You sure?” She raises a brow. “What about a vodka shot to cleanse the germs? A concrete pill, perhaps? How’s this: I grind up some healing crystals and sprinkle them in your tea.”
I level her with a glare that makes her grin. “I think the burnout is just getting to me.” My voice comes out in an exhausted mumble—not faked.
Her lips pull in concern. I jolt when she throws something my way. A chocolate bar lands on my desk with an unceremonious thud, like the solution for all my problems fell from Heaven.
“I suppose it’s basically a natural remedy,” I mutter.
She snorts. “I’m heading out. I’m going to stay at Ben’s house tonight.”
My heart does a little jealous flip. They’ve been together for two and a half months and have already talked about moving in together. While I’ll be stuck here. By myself. Probably moving back in with my parents. Grieving over a man I was never with and saying goodbye to my career while hers prospers.
“Have fun at work,” I grumble. She’s hardly home anymore.
“Kill me now,” are her parting words as she shuts the door behind her.
I drop my head onto my desk.Kill me now, indeed.I’ve never felt so pitiful before. I’m not sure what makes me feel sick more: what Leo did, or the things his friends said.
Both, probably.
Negative critiques and hate messages over my interests and books are one thing. Getting sexualized for what I do to such adegree is a whole other level that I never prepared myself for. It’s like there’s an invisible layer of grime on my skin that I can’t scrub off, regardless of how hard I try.
