Twenty Two #2
The tears come anyway, hot and stinging. My body shakes as I crumple onto the floor, clutching the damn mug like it’s the last piece of him I’ll ever have. Because it is. Because I told him I didn’t love him. Because I shattered something that could’ve been extraordinary.
A loud knock at the door startles me, sharp and unexpected. My heart leaps into my throat, and for one reckless, hopeful second, I think it’s him.
Maybe he came back. Maybe he didn’t believe me after all, and he’s here to fight for us.
But when I open the door, it’s my neighbour, Mrs. Harris. She is clutching a bouquet of slightly wilted daisies. Her warm smile fades when she sees my red, tear-streaked face.
“Oh, dear,” she says softly, her brow furrowing. “Are you all right?”
I force a smile, blinking rapidly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just allergies.”
She doesn’t believe me—I can see it in the way her lips press together. But she doesn’t push. “I thought you could use these,” she says, holding out the flowers. “They’re from my planter box. I always cut a few extras.”
“Thank you,” I manage, taking them from her. They’re slightly crushed from her grip, but they’re beautiful, their soft petals brushing against my fingers like a balm.
“Take care of yourself, love,” she says before retreating back down the hall.
I close the door and stare at the flowers for a long moment before setting them on the kitchen counter. They brighten the room slightly, but the ache in my chest remains, heavy and unmoving.
I glance at my phone again.
Still nothing.
My chest tightens as I sit back on the sofa, pulling a blanket over my legs as if it can shield me from the crushing loneliness pressing in from all sides.
The day drags on in a haze of emptiness. I try to distract myself with television, but every rom-com feels like a cruel joke, every happy ending a painful reminder of what I’ve lost.
I scroll aimlessly on my phone, but even social media feels unbearable. Everyone’s lives look so perfect, so together. Meanwhile, I’m falling apart in a flat that smells like the man I pushed away.
By the time evening rolls around, the sun dipping low and casting golden light through the windows, I feel completely drained. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t moved. I haven’t done anything except replay that awful moment by the lake, his face etched in pain as I lied to him.
“I don’t love you.”
The words haunt me, an endless loop that refuses to quiet.
I didn’t just lie to him—I lied to myself.
And now I have to live with it.
I pick up my phone again, my thumb hovering over his name in my contacts. The urge to call him, to take it all back, is overwhelming. But what would I even say? How could I explain why I pushed him away when I don’t fully understand it myself?
Fear. Stubbornness. A lifetime of convincing myself that love is a trap, that letting someone in only means giving them the power to hurt you.
I swipe away from the screen, tossing the phone onto the coffee table. The tears come again, slower this time, soaking into the sleeves of my hoodie as I curl up on the sofa.
I cry for what I’ve done, for what I’ve lost. For him. For us.
For the first time in years, I feel truly, utterly alone.
THE STALE AIR OF my flat wraps around me like a second skin as I pull open the door. My steps falter when my gaze locks on the door directly across from mine.
Austin’s door.
It’s closed—of course, it is—but I stare at it like it might burst open any second. Like he might step out and pull me into his arms, tell me I’m being an idiot and that he’s not going anywhere.
But the silence in the hallway stretches on, mocking me. I force myself to take a deep breath.
It’s just a door.
I tighten my grip on my bag and move past it, ignoring the pang in my chest. It’s been days since I left my flat, calling in sick to the salon with a vague excuse about a stomach bug. In truth, I just couldn’t face anyone.
The lift dings softly down the hall, but I veer toward the stairs instead. The idea of standing in that small space, surrounded by the ghost of him, is too much. The clatter of my boots echoes off the concrete walls as I descend, my movements stiff and mechanical.
When I reach the last flight, I hear the sound of heels clicking against the stairs below. My heart sinks before I even see her.
Amber.
She comes into view, her sleek blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail that probably took her all of two minutes to perfect. Her lipstick is a bold red, and her perfectly tailored trench coat flares out at the waist like she just walked off a catwalk.
Great. The last person I want to see.
Her eyes widen slightly when she spots me, then narrow in that calculated way of hers. “Mia,” she says, dragging out my name like it’s something sour. “I was beginning to think you’d fallen off the face of the earth.”
“Disappointed I didn’t?” I quip, pushing past her.
She turns to follow me, her heels clicking louder as she descends the last few steps. “Oh, don’t be like that. I was just about to say you look . . . nice.”
I glance over my shoulder, my sarcasm sharpening. “Thanks. And you look . . . like a walking perfume ad.”
Amber smirks, clearly unbothered. “Guilty as charged. Some of us like to put effort into how we present ourselves to the world.”
“Good for you,” I mutter, stepping into the foyer. “Some of us like to mind our own business.”
Her laughter follows me, light and airy and laced with condescension. “Touchy, aren’t we? Let me guess—have you had a lovers tiff with Mr. Perfect upstairs?”
I stop dead in my tracks, turning to face her. My pulse pounds in my ears, but I keep my expression neutral. “You know, Amber, your obsession with other people’s lives is almost impressive. Have you ever considered getting a hobby?”
Her smile sharpens, but there’s something smug in her eyes that makes my stomach twist. “Just making conversation,” she says sweetly.
“But if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.
Just tell him to give me a call when he gets bored of you.
A guy like him, well, he needs someone with a little more . . .” She looks me up and down. “Class.”
The words hit harder than I’d like to admit, but I refuse to let her see it. Instead, I lift my chin and offer a tight smile. “Thanks, Amber. Really.”
She shrugs, clearly enjoying herself.
Bitch.
Without another word, I push open the building’s front door and step into the crisp morning air. The sound of Amber’s heels fades behind me as I walk quickly down the street, my chest heaving with the effort of keeping it together.
Austin is probably waking up in another woman’s bed right now.
He is the kind of man women fall over themselves for.
Charming, successful, loyal to a fault. He’s the guy who walks into a room and owns it without even trying.
The guy who makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world when he looks at you.
And I threw him away.
The realisation sinks deeper with every step I take, the weight of it pressing harder against my chest.
I feel like I can’t breathe.
I cross my arms tightly, trying to shield myself from the cold—or maybe from my own thoughts.
A gust of wind blows through the street, and I catch a whiff of something faintly familiar. A hint of cedar and spice, like his aftershave. My throat tightens, and I stop in my tracks, glancing around as though he might be standing there.
But it’s just a stranger passing by, their scarf pulled high against the chill.
I let out a shaky breath and keep walking, my legs moving on autopilot as I head toward the park at the end of the road.
It’s a small, quiet space with a handful of benches and a duck pond that always smells faintly of algae.
Austin and I used to walk here sometimes, usually late at night when the city felt a little less overwhelming.
I lower myself onto one of the benches, and my gaze fixes on the water as ripples spread across its surface. A group of ducks paddle lazily near the edge, their quacks echoing softly in the morning air.
I should feel calm here, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of the park. But all I feel is hollow. Like there’s this big, gaping hole in my chest where he used to be.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, my thumb hovering over the screen again.
I haven’t texted him.
Haven’t called.
But I’ve thought about it. God, have I thought about it? Every hour of every day since I watched him walk away.
But what would I even say? That I lied? That I love him so much it terrifies me? That I’m scared he’s too good for me, that he deserves someone who isn’t constantly second-guessing everything?
Instead, I open Instagram, mindlessly scrolling through my feed. Pictures of smiling couples, friends’ holidays, someone’s baby in a pumpkin costume—it all blurs together, meaningless and irrelevant.
And then I see his name.
Austin Conall.
My heart stutters, and I instinctively click on the tag, the photo opening in full view.
It’s a candid shot of him at a gallery event, standing next to some blonde in a black cocktail dress.
She’s laughing, her hand resting lightly on his arm, and he’s smiling that effortless, devastating smile of his.
My stomach twists into knots, and I quickly exit the app, shoving my phone back into my pocket like it’s burned me.
It shouldn’t matter.
He’s allowed to move on.
Hell, I told him to move on.
But that doesn’t stop the image from searing itself into my brain, doesn’t stop the ache in my chest from spreading like wildfire.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees as I bury my face in my hands. The sound of the ducks fades into the background, replaced by the roar of my own thoughts.
I did this. I pushed him away.
And now, I don’t know how to get him back.