d ceramic mug she bought me that said 'World's Best Boyfriend'-was a monument to my own foolishness. I moved through the small space with a cold, methodical purpose. I grabb
into the trash can. I was erasing her, one memory at a time. My passport was in the desk drawer, along with the few hundred dollars I had saved for e
My heart hammered against my ribs, but my face remained a mask
ed," she said, her voice dripping with fa
ffel bag on the floor. A flicker
y pocket and pulled out the thick wad of cash. I
uite conceal. She reached for the money, her f
the bills to her chest. "You've saved me. I d
he duffel bag again and quickly added, "I'm just... going to stay at my friend's place for a couple
ple, emotional fool. "Of course, baby," she cooed. "You do what you
ought she had won. As she scrolled through her contacts, probably to text Mark and their friends, her
the video of him crying at the studio.
y wanted to destroy me publicly. They wanted to turn my deepest moment of pain and sacrifice into a spectacl
, replaced by a sharp, clear determination. They
"I'm feeling really drained. Could yo
miling at her phone. She set it face down on
er gallery, my stomach churning at the sight of the video. There I was, on a small screen, my face contorted in grief as I handed o
one. While she was out of the room, I had started a recording.
. I took their video-the one of me crying-and I replaced the audio track. I stripped out my own broken voice and
masterpiece of poetic justice. I saved the new version, deleted the original from her phone, and then, for good measure, I found the file I'd just sent from her phone t
holding a glass of water. S
s. I didn't drink it. I just held
she said, the words
tasting like ash in my mouth. It wa
closed the door softly behind me, the click of the latch sounding lik
but a bag of clothes, a plane ticket, and a video file that was about to burn their world to the gr
a new, anonymous social media account. I scheduled the post for 9:55 PM, five minutes before Mark's planned release. Th
-