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“It always seemed like the world as I knew it was ending. Like everything was falling apart. Like there was no other option except being with him…”
Each sentence awakens another memory.
But none of them get to me anymore.
“I thought it was love, but it was just habit. I mistook routine for a healthy relationship. I thought that was how life was supposed to be… that it was where I belonged.”
It’s frustrating, realizing how many years you gave to the wrong person.
Not because you might have met someone else during that time—those things happen when they’re meant to—but because you could have lived differently.
Freely.
Peacefully.
“I accepted things that never should’ve been accepted. Things that don’t even make sense,” I add with a bitter laugh.
When I look back at Zayn, he hasn’t moved.
But something in his expression has darkened.
“I stayed in that relationship until I finally detached myself from him,” I admit without shame. “When he cheated, I wasn’t even shocked. It didn’t hurt.”
That’s the truth.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t ask why.
I didn’t lose sleep over it.
I didn’t stop eating.
“I wasn’t hurt.”
I let out a slow breath.
“I was relieved.”
One of his eyebrows lifts.
“Relieved that I finally had a reason to end it. To leave. To stop pretending. To stop settling.”
I don’t understand why I’m telling him all this, but I have a vague feeling the two bottles of wine we’ve shared have something to do with it.
“Then I spent a long time feeling guilty—for letting go so easily, for waiting until I had a reason to leave. Because I wasn’t honest,” I confess, forcing a faint smile. “Until I realized I didn’t push him to cheat. I lived through the exact same relationship, and I never cheated.”
“That’s…”
“And his messages probably helped too. The ones where he calls me a slut or blames me for everything,” I finish, taking a sip from my nearly empty glass.
“What did you just say?”
“I…”
His voice cuts through me.
I falter, unsettled by the sharp edge in his tone and the darkness settling over his face.
