yna

e, unmistakable, amplified by the speakers. My heart, against my will, gave a familiar lurch. I knew that voice. I knew ev

She was obviously responding to a recent wave of negative press, likely fueled by some of her own manipulative so

usually so sharp and analytical, was soft, filled with concern. He looked at Kisha the way he used to look at m

less accusations, are vile. They are a symptom of a larger problem of online bullying and misogyny." He went on, a passionate,

ingly cruel. He was speaking out against online harassment, against the very thing I had been subjected to for months, f

my own empty living room. I hated crying. I hated feeling weak. But the sheer injustice of it, the sta

a friend, forwarding a screenshot of Jarrett's speech, with a caption: "Your man is such a hero for s

rying to cling to his fame." "She's ugly, Kisha is prettier." The words had assaulted me, day and night, seeping into my dreams, stealing my sleep. I develope

ignore it, Alayna," he' d said, his voice flat. "It's just the internet. They'll move on. Don't give them the satisfaction." He

ck to comforting Kisha, to defending

rved. He was her knight in shining armor, while I, his actual girlfriend fo

eyes, fixed on the audience, were filled with a profound sadness, a sympathy that looked disturbingly intimate. He was playing the r

clear now. It wasn't just neglect. It was a complete, utter disregard for my existence, for my feelings, f

didn't care about his schedule, his press tour, his "method a

, with a deep, shaky breath, I tapped i

Jarrett. Don