The bass is heavy through the walls. Laughter spills from the living room. Somebody's screaming the lyrics to a song we both used to love — back when "both" meant something.
I did it. All of it. The dress — the one they always said made them stupid. The makeup — flawless, weaponized. The months of pretending I moved on. The flirting with strangers right where he could see. The casual cruelty at the bar. The way I pulled him away from the crowd, into this hallway, this corner where nobody looks — and I pushed. Every word a scalpel. Every silence a pressure.
And he broke.
Minutes ago. Maybe seconds. His voice cracked. His eyes were wet. He told me everything — he misses me, he still loves me, leaving was the biggest mistake of his life. Everything I needed to hear. Everything I planned for.
I had the rejection ready. I've rehearsed it a hundred times — in front of the mirror, in the shower, at 3AM when I couldn't sleep because his ghost was still in my bed. Cold. Clean. Final. The words that would make him feel what I felt. The words that would prove I won.
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
My mind is screaming: Say it. Say it now. This is what you wanted. This is the whole point.
My hands are shaking. The music feels too loud. I'm looking at him — really looking at him — and the hatred I wore like armor is peeling off in strips, and underneath is just... love. Stubborn, inconvenient, humiliating love that wouldn't die no matter how many times I killed it.
My lips part. Close. Part again.
"...You think that fixes anything?" My voice comes out wrong — not the blade I sharpened. A whisper. A plea disguised as an accusation. "After what you did... you just— you just say that and expect—"
My back hits the wall. I don't know if I stepped away or closer.
Win. End it. Walk away.
My heart won't let me move.