I stared at the picture too long. Then I made the dumbest decision of my night, I went to her page.
Every photo of us? Gone. Erased. Like I never happened. Like I was a blurry face in a yearbook no one remembers.
And that, that, was what finally made it hit me. Again.
She didn't just leave me. She erased me.
I felt the burn behind my eyes before I could stop it. My throat clenched. My chest ached. I turned my face into the pillow to muffle the pathetic sob that escaped and told myself to shut the hell up.
You don't cry over people who compare you to a desert.
I sat up, eyes burning, and grabbed the box I kept under the bed. Every little thing she left behind, her toothbrush, a forgotten earring, one of her hoodies, the stupid mug that said "Boss Babe", I threw them all in. No hesitation. No second thoughts.
She wanted to act like I never existed? Fine. Two could play that game.
Ping.
Another notification. This time from Mason, my coworker, borderline friend, and king of unfortunate timing.
Mason:
"Bro… did you see Lila's post???"
I stared at the screen for a second.
Me:
"Yeah. We broke up."
Three dots. Then:
Mason:
"Shit, man. I'm sorry."
I wasn't in the mood for pity.
Me:
"It's fine."
Another pause.
Mason:
"It's Friday. Let's hit a club. Drinks on me. You need to forget this mess."
At first, I didn't reply. My thumb hovered over the screen. I wasn't exactly in the mood to socialize. Not ever really. But then I thought about that picture. About that guy. About how she looked so happy without me.
And I thought, yeah. I do want to forget. Even if it's just for a night.
Me:
"Yeah. Pick me up in an hour."
I threw on something black and tight enough to lie about how miserable I was. I looked in the mirror and told myself I didn't care.
And then I stepped out the door, ready to drink until I couldn't remember her name.
***
I told myself I wouldn't check her socials. I really did.
But the moment Mason parked outside the club and started hyping up the night like we were about to win a Grammy, I caught myself unlocking my phone and hovering over her name.
Just a quick peek. Just to see if she deleted more pictures. Maybe she blocked me. Maybe she regretted,
"Noah," Mason snapped his fingers in my face, "no sad-boy scrolling. We're here to drink, degrade ourselves slightly, and pretend heartbreak is a character-building experience."
I shoved my phone back into my pocket and gave him a weak nod. "Right."
Inside the club, it was loud. Like, organs-rattling loud. The bass vibrated through my bones and the lights were pulsing like they were trying to give me a seizure. People were already grinding, bodies pressed against each other like they were allergic to personal space. It was hell. Or maybe heaven, if you were into this kind of chaos.
Mason practically dragged me by the wrist to the bar counter.
"I'm getting you something dangerous," he shouted over the music, grinning like a madman. "You need to loosen up. Who knows, maybe you'll find a new chick who's into shy boys with tragic eyes."
I snorted. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"Don't mention it. I'm your emotional support extrovert."
The bartender slid over, and Mason ordered something fruity that smelled like betrayal and burned like regret. I didn't really like alcohol. It always tasted like bad decisions and left me feeling too warm in the face and too slow in the brain.
But I didn't say anything. I wanted to be cool. For the night at least. To impress myself or anyone that was watching.
I took a sip. Then a gulp. Then another. It burned but I was getting used to it. It didn't take long before my shoulders started relaxing and my brain started feeling a little fuzzy around the edges.
Mason tried to drag me onto the dance floor, but I resisted like my life depended on it. No actually because it did. I couldn't dance to save my grandmother's life talk less of mine. Manson rolled his eyes and vanished into the crowd with a dramatic wave, leaving me unsupervised at the bar with a full glass and no sense of self-control.
So I kept drinking. And drinking. And suddenly, I was very chatty.
"I just don't get it, man," I told the bartender, who looked about three seconds away from marrying a cocktail shaker. "I gave her everything. I was nice. I was loyal. I never even looked at other girls! I made her playlists on our Spotify. Playlists."
"That's rough man," the bartender said, not unkindly, while sliding drinks to someone else.
"I was gonna propose," I added, just in case he wasn't already pitying me enough. "I bought a ring. It's still in my sock drawer. Under the Pikachu socks."
He raised a brow. "Pikachu socks?"
"They're adorable."
"Sure, man."
I chuckled and slammed the rest of my drink, wincing as it scorched its way down.
Then I turned to look around the club, just to distract myself from the stupid ache in my chest. The lights blurred a little, everyone was sweaty and beautiful and too close.
I squinted, scanning the crowd, and that's when my eyes caught,
Him. And everything slowed down.
There, standing near the VIP lounge like the world belonged to him, was the man from Lila's post. The man. Her upgrade. Her reason.
Tall. Striking. In a black-on-black suit that probably cost more than my rent, holding a drink like it was just another expensive accessory. Even in the mess of flashing lights and sweat-drenched bodies, he looked… untouchable. Like the kind of man who didn't get rejected, he did the rejecting. Who didn't fall in love, he got worshipped.
And he was real. Right there.
Not some filtered Instagram fantasy. Not a pixelated photo. Flesh and blood and somehow even more infuriatingly beautiful up close. My heart thudded painfully.
This was him. The man Lila left me for. And he had the audacity to look even better in real life.