With a shaky breath, I forced back the tears burning at the corners of my eyes, determined not to let them fall. God, why was I always on the verge of breaking? I can't let a man dictate my world again. Not now. Not ever.
The familiar blare of "All the Single Ladies" shattered the silence—it was Sarah's ringtone.
"I have to take this call, but don't think you can slip away from me," she said, flashing me a knowing look before darting out of the room.
The door clicked shut behind her, and for the first time that evening, I was left in solitude. Relief washed over me. As much as I adored Sarah, her presence could be suffocating, especially when I needed space to wrestle with the mess inside my chest and the demons in my head.
Thing was, I was never the type to talk when sadness pressed in, or when heartbreak gnawed at me. I preferred to fold into myself, to retreat from the world and nurse the ache in silence until I felt strong enough to breathe it out. Sarah, on the other hand, needed to speak immediately—her emotions tumbling raw and unfiltered, seeking release in conversation. That was where we differed, and where she never seemed to understand me. Most times she thought I was shutting her out, hiding from her, or that I was simply not as invested in our friendship, when all I was really doing was holding myself together, clinging to the fragile thread of composure until I was ready to unravel on my own terms.
One day, I hoped, she might understand.
I shifted to the edge of the bed, phone in hand, fingers flying across the screen before hesitation could root me in silence again. The frustration of Lucien's silence—his ghosting, the endless cycle of letdowns—spilled into words I could no longer keep bottled inside.
Me: Who exactly is your baby girl? I've been texting you for days. You couldn't even check on me after our so-called date. Me: I really do not want to have to deal with this again.
For a moment, nothing. Then his reply lit up the screen.
Lucien: I can explain.
My chest tightened, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of an opening. My thumbs moved with a finality that tasted of both hurt and defiance.
Me: No. I don't need your explanation. Save it.
Yes, I wanted to hear what he had to say, but I was not about to make it easy for him.
Lucien: Little lamb, you have to hear me out—because I need you to.
I exhaled sharply, blinking back the tears that blurred my screen. My eyes drifted toward the window. For a moment, I thought about pulling back the curtains, letting the light in. But no. I needed the darkness. The dark was honest—it mirrored me. And I didn't want to have to deal with today, not with the way I was currently feeling.
Me: Why should I give a fuck about what you need? Did you care about what I needed when I was texting you and you didn't give two shits to reply for a whole damn week?!
My thumb hovered, tempted. I'd already typed asshole. Then deleted it. Didn't want to go overboard—at least not yet.
Lucien: Because you care about me, and I know it. If you didn't, you wouldn't be this mad about my absence. Me: I said it's not necessary. Save your explanations. Lucien: It is necessary—for me. Me: Not for me. Just stop texting me. We are done!
The moment I hit send, my heart began to hammer so violently I thought it might burst through my chest. Oh my God. My hand flew to my mouth as dread and anticipation collided inside me. What if he accepted it? What if he actually stayed away? On one hand, it was the smart thing to do—the only way to protect myself, to draw a clean line, to end this endless spiral.
But did he really owe me constant communication? We weren't even officially together. Did he think that disappearing without a word was the right way to handle things?
No. I wasn't going to gaslight myself. After that night, after the way he held me, touched me, looked at me, he should have texted. He should have chosen me over silence. I just want a man who won't shut me out—that can't be so hard.
When his reply came, I didn't breathe. My hand shook as I clicked it open.
Lucien: You want me to stop texting you? Me: Yes.
The lie scorched me the second I pressed send, my fingertips burning as if the truth itself was punishing me. Of course I didn't want us to be over. Of course I didn't want it to end like this. I needed his explanation. Needed to understand why he vanished, why silence had been easier than me.
But every keystroke I forced out was drenched in my anger, each word sharpened by the ache I refused to admit. Beneath the fury, something more fragile threatened to unravel me. Rage simmered hot under my skin, and then—betraying me completely—a single tear broke free, burning a path down my cheek.
And the worst part? I didn't even know why I was crying.