Angst, angst, and even more angst
An entire year wasted on him. All those late-night conversations, stolen kisses, and whispered "I love yous" now felt like cruel jokes. Everyone had warned you; even his best friends told you that Noah wasn’t the kind of man to settle down. Still, you refused to listen. You desperately wanted to believe you were different, that he was different.
But the truth was harsh: you were just his second-best.
His phone felt heavy in your hand, the damning evidence glaring at you from the screen: messages, photos, names you didn’t know and now quietly despised. Proof that every date, every laugh, every small and tender moment you shared meant nothing.
He didn’t deny anything. Didn’t even try to justify it. He just stood there, silent and unreadable, as you demanded an explanation.
Then, with a careless shrug, he finally said it.
"Not my fault, you couldn’t keep me entertained."
His words landed flat and cold. It was as if you were nothing more than a momentary distraction; something he had already outgrown, discarded without a second thought.
But you saw it, the slight twitch in his jaw, the way his fingers unconsciously curled into fists at his sides. He hadn't expected you to find out, and he certainly hadn't prepared to feel anything about it. Yet as you stood face to face, you could sense his carefully crafted indifference beginning to crack. His mask slipped, if only for a moment, revealing flashes of guilt or regret he didn’t want you to see. The silence stretched between you, heavy and raw, and you realized he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended. You almost pitied him, clinging to his bravado even as the truth simmered just beneath the surface, threatening to break him, too.
You rub your face with your free hand, struggling to find the right words. A tidal wave of emotions rises within you, anger, heartbreak, betrayal, all tangled together, making it hard to speak. For a moment, you contemplate what to say, but nothing seems adequate. You’re left standing there, caught in the storm of your feelings, trying to steady yourself as the reality of the situation fully sinks in.
He shifts his weight from foot to foot, watching as you struggle to come to terms with what he has done. Did you expect an apology? Tears? Maybe even a fight? Yet he offers nothing but stone-faced silence.
Never before have you felt so small. With every moment of his indifference, the space between you seems to widen, the air growing heavier with unspoken words. His impassive expression offers neither comfort nor answers, leaving you alone with nothing but your pain and the questions he refuses to acknowledge.
At last, he crosses his arms and speaks, his tone maddeningly casual. "You knew what I was like from the start. Everyone told you how I am."
His words land like a final blow, dismissing everything you'd shared and reinforcing the cold distance that now separates you. In that instant, the reality of who he truly is becomes undeniable, unapologetically detached, unwilling to meet you in your hurt, perfectly content to let you shoulder all the heartbreak alone.
You remain silent, at a loss for words and actions. Unable to process the betrayal fully, your numb fingers scroll through his phone again. Images fill your vision: messages, photos, glimpses of girls you don’t recognize. They’re all beautiful, each in their own way, their smiles and perfect features a painful reminder of everything you now doubt about yourself. The comparison stings, raw and relentless, deepening the ache inside you and making the weight of his deception even harder to bear.
His expression shifts, barely, but enough to hint at something beyond indifference, as he leans in to see what you’re doing. You keep scrolling, hands trembling, acutely aware of his gaze on you, his silence thick and expectant.
Message after message appears: plans made, pictures exchanged. What hurts the most are the pet names, ones you thought were just for you, now used so casually with others. The realization cuts deep, sharper than you’d imagined possible. Then you see it: a conversation from the night before. He had promised to see someone else tonight, just moments after making the same promise to you.
The proof is undeniable, and for a moment all you can do is stare, your heart sinking as each betrayal makes itself plain.
A wave of anxiety washes over you. You never imagined he would do this to you, never thought you’d find yourself in such a position. As the shock settles in, a single thought echoes in your mind: his friends were right all along.
Your breath starts to quicken, shallow and uneven, and you force yourself to inhale slowly through your nose, willing your chest to rise and fall at a calmer pace. If you could just steady it, maybe he wouldn’t notice. Maybe you could keep at least one part of yourself from falling apart in front of him.
But the effort is useless. His gaze sharpens on you, eyes narrowing the way they always do when he’s about to say something cruel or calculated. The muscles in his jaw tense, ticking once, twice, and you know, he’s caught it. He’s caught the crack in your composure, the tremor in your breathing, the way your fingers grip his phone just a little too tightly.
You hate that he can still read you so easily.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. The room feels too small, too quiet, the air dense with everything you’ve seen and everything he refuses to admit. Your lungs burn as you try to slow your breaths, but the anxiety curls tighter in your chest, coiling like a fist around your heart.
His eyes flick from your face to the phone and back again, as if he’s measuring something, your reaction, your breaking point, the exact second you’ll finally shatter. There’s a flicker there, something almost like panic or regret, but it’s gone before you can name it, buried under that familiar, infuriating indifference.
The phone buzzes in your hand, and both of you freeze. Your fingers shake as you lift it closer to your face.
It’s her, the one he’s supposed to see tonight.
Sarah: Where are you, baby? I’m so lonely without you…
You stare at the message until the words blur, your vision stinging. A dull ringing starts in your ears, swallowing the room, muting everything except the glow of his screen in your hand. Your chest tightens, each breath catching halfway, like your lungs have forgotten how to work.
Your thoughts fracture, splintering into too many directions at once. How many times has he called her baby? How foolish you must look standing here, still holding on. Heat crawls up your neck, shame and panic mixing until you can’t tell which hurts more.
The phone feels slippery in your grip. For a moment, you’re convinced you might drop it, that your fingers will just stop obeying you the way your voice has. You can feel your pulse everywhere, in your throat, in your temples, in the tips of your shaking hands. It’s too loud. You’re sure he can hear it.
Another bubble of messages appears at the bottom of the screen, her name lighting up again, and your stomach lurches. You don’t open it. You can’t. The idea of seeing more, of reading another line meant for him, squeezes the air right out of you.
You swallow hard, but your mouth is dry, your tongue heavy. You’re dimly aware of him beside you, of the way the silence thickens, but you can’t look at him yet. If you do, you’re afraid everything holding you together will finally snap.
He murmurs your name, your name sounding like a prayer on his lips.
You shake your head, refusing to look at him, refusing to give in. He steps closer, slow and deliberate, and his fingers brush your wrist. His touch is warm, almost grounding, and it makes your stomach twist. Gradually, his hand trails down to your own, and he slips the phone from your grip.
He slips the phone into his pocket without even glancing at the screen and steps back; still close, but no longer touching you. He murmurs your name again, softer this time, but instead of turning toward him, you turn away and face the bed.
You let the tears fall freely, no longer able to hold them back. Your gaze drifts to his side of the bed, to the nightstand crowded with photos of the two of you. Smiling. Laughing. In love, or at least pretending to be.
You slowly make your way to the closet and pull out a duffel bag. You start to shove some pieces of clothing into your bag, movements sharp and unsteady. T-shirts, jeans, anything your fingers land on gets crammed inside, no thought to outfits or seasons, just escape. A pair of socks snags on the zipper, and you rip them free, tossing them in on top of everything else.
You pause for a second, breathing hard, your eyes blurring as you stare down at the half-filled bag. It doesn’t look like enough. It doesn’t look like a life, just a handful of fabric and broken plans. You swipe angrily at your cheeks and reach back into the closet, grabbing another armful of clothes, needing the motion, needing something to do besides fall apart in front of him.
Once you're finished, you yank the zipper closed. Slinging the bag over your shoulder, you head for the door, where he’s standing, still there, just enough in the way to make you stop.
You force yourself to meet his gaze, tears still trailing slowly down your cheeks. For a moment, something flickers in his eyes; regret, maybe, but it’s gone almost as soon as you catch it, replaced by that same flat boredom.
You shake your head, a bitter laugh catching in your throat, and shoulder-check him out of your way. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t say a word.
You walk through the house, past the framed photos lining the walls; birthdays, holidays, blurry selfies taken in the soft glow of late nights. Every smiling image of the two of you feels like another crack in your chest, each one a reminder of how deeply you’d believed in a future that never really existed.
By the time you reach the front door, your vision is swimming. You pause, hand on the knob, and glance back over your shoulder. Noah is still standing in the bedroom doorway, turned toward the bed, not even looking at you.
He doesn’t call your name. He doesn’t beg you to stay. He doesn’t even ask where you’re going.
For the first time, you understand: his silence is its own answer.
You draw a slow breath, square your shoulders, and open the door.
If he won’t fight for you, you’ll fight for yourself.
You step outside and let the door close behind you, leaving him and everything he chose to throw away on the other side.
origamiaround
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
stormborns
