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Everywhere.

And, since then, I’ve known him only through headlines and photographs.

Nickolas Hardy spotted leaving a club at 3 a.m

Hardy scored in overtime—again

Nick Hardy seen laughing with teammates at downtown restaurant

Flawless every time, Nick Hardy turns heads in tailored black, leaving hearts in pieces wherever he goes

What happened between Nick Hardy and Sierra Thomas? A short-lived romance or nothing at all?

Every time I read those words, it’s like a fresh cut—clean and cruel. I can see him in my mind—his sharp jawline, that careless smirk, the kind of presence that makes silence loud. He looks… perfect. Untouched. Unbothered. Like heartbreak dressed in human skin.

Women notice. Of course they do.

I don’t blame them.

They should.

Sometimes, there’s a woman in the frame. Always a few steps away. Never close enough to hurt me. But never far enough not to.

It hurts—how stunning he is. How far from me he is.

How he’s become this impossible, unreachable version of himself—without me.

It’s like he’s haunting me without trying.

Like the universe is obsessed with showing me what I lost. What I’ll never touch again. Wants me to see him… moving on. Living.

While I’m still here, stuck in the night he left.

I haven’t asked my brothers or in-laws anything.

I can’t. I’m too ashamed. And I’m terrified of what they’d say. Of what they wouldn’t say. Of the silence that would confirm what I already fear.

That I’ve lost him.

Forever.

Some days, I think about calling him from Thalia’s number. Just to hear his voice once. But I never do. Because I don’t know what I’d say. Because I know the moment I hear him again, I’ll fall apart in a way that no one will be able to fix. And what if he tells me he’s already gone for good? That I’m just a chapter he regrets?

So I keep quiet. And I let time pass. I exist. But I don’t live. Not really.

And sometimes—late at night, when the city is asleep and the ache in my chest feels unbearable—I still wear his shirts. Because it’s all I have left of him. And somehow, they still smell like him.

I still wear the rings. The engagement ring he gave me. The wedding band we slipped on each other’s fingers while the world held its breath and time stood still. I wear them every single day. They’re the only things that bring me comfort. And the only things that destroy me.

Because I don’t know if they mean anything to him anymore. I don’t know if he still wears his. In every photo, his left hand is either hidden or turned just enough to keep me guessing. Not one clear shot. Not one confirmation.

The press doesn’t even know we got married. There were no announcements. No leaked wedding photos. No clues. It’s like it never happened. Like we never happened.

The not-knowing helps me to breathe. And it kills me slowly.

I don’t go out anymore. Not unless I have to. I’ve lost six kilos, but it’s not the kind of weight loss people compliment. It’s the kind that makes my clothes hang off me and my mother’s voice catch every time she calls.

I’ve stopped going to family gatherings. They all stopped asking. I can’t face them. Not when I know the only reason they don’t talk about him is because they’re trying not to break me. Because they see what I did. What I ruined.