The night didn't end when she walked away.
It stayed with me—clinging to my skin, sitting in my chest, following me even when the music swallowed the room again.
I stood there long after Jay disappeared, my body tense like I was still bracing for a fight that was already over. The space she'd left behind felt colder than the rest of the room, like something important had been torn out and no one bothered to close the wound.
People were staring.
I could feel it without looking.
Whispers moved through the air, quiet but sharp. Questions without answers. Judgments I didn't need to hear out loud to understand.
I deserved them.
I turned away and headed for the drinks, not because I wanted one—but because I didn't know where else to go. My hands were shaking, and that alone made my stomach twist. I hated that. Hated how out of control I felt.
I wrapped my fingers around the edge of the counter and stared down at the glass in front of me, untouched.
What did you just do?
The question echoed in my head, louder than the music.
I had crossed a line.
There was no way around it. No excuse strong enough to soften that truth.
I'd let jealousy speak louder than reason. Let anger take the place of restraint. I'd acted like possession meant entitlement—and the second the thought fully formed, shame crawled up my spine.
Jay wasn't something to own.
She never was.
I closed my eyes, and the memory hit me instantly—not the argument, not the words, but her expression. The way her face changed. The way her eyes hardened, not with fear, but with something worse.
Disappointment.
That look hurt more than any slap ever could.
I had seen her strong before. I had seen her walk away before. But tonight… tonight I'd seen something else.
I'd seen the moment she decided I wasn't safe for her anymore.
That realization sat heavy in my chest.
I straightened slowly, forcing myself to breathe evenly. My reflection stared back at me from the mirror behind the bar—jaw tight, eyes dark, expression unreadable. I barely recognized myself.
When did I become this person?
When did caring turn into control?
I thought back to all the times I'd told myself I was protecting her. That I knew what was best. That my anger came from love.
It sounded ridiculous now.
Love didn't corner someone.
Love didn't ignore boundaries.
Love didn't make someone feel like they had to escape.
My fingers curled into fists again, then loosened as I forced them to relax. I didn't trust myself like this—wound tight, emotions spilling everywhere, logic buried under instinct.
Cin's voice cut through the noise somewhere behind me. I didn't need to hear the words to know what he was asking.
Did you know she was back?
I didn't turn around.
What would I even say?
Yes, I knew.
Yes, I followed her.
Yes, I messed up.
The truth didn't feel like something I deserved to say out loud yet.
Because saying it meant facing it fully.
I left the counter without touching the drink and moved toward a quieter corner, away from the crowd. My thoughts were loud enough without the music pressing in.
Jay had looked so distant tonight. Like she'd already built walls I couldn't see. Like she'd learned how to survive without leaning on anyone.
And I'd tried to tear those walls down instead of understanding why they were there.
I dragged a hand down my face, exhaustion settling in.
I wanted to believe I could fix this. That one apology, one conversation, one promise would make things right.
But deep down, I knew that wasn't how it worked.
Not after tonight.
Trust didn't grow back just because you regretted breaking it.
And regret—real regret—wasn't about feeling bad.
It was about change.
The thought scared me.
Because change meant letting go of control. It meant accepting that Jay didn't owe me anything—not explanations, not forgiveness, not her time.
It meant understanding that wanting her didn't give me the right to demand her.
I swallowed hard, my chest tightening.
I didn't know if she would ever look at me the same way again.
And for the first time, I had to face the possibility that she shouldn't.
That maybe the consequences of my actions weren't something I could argue my way out of.
I deserved the distance.
I deserved the silence.
The party continued around me like nothing had happened. Laughter rose and fell. Music shifted. Life moved on.
But I stood there, stuck in the aftermath of my own choices, knowing one thing for certain:
If I ever wanted to be someone worthy of standing near her again—
I would have to become someone completely different.
And that journey wouldn't start with chasing her.
It would start with learning how to stop myself.