The sunlight slipped through the curtains with the casual cruelty of someone who didn't care what had happened last night. It kissed the edges of my bedroom, soft and golden, and I hated it instantly. Sunlight wasn't supposed to be this beautiful after heartbreak, but here it was, mocking me in its warmth.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, my fingers curled slightly against the sheets. The memory of his hand—the warmth, the pleading, the tremor of desperation—made my chest ache even as I reminded myself why I had let go. Letting go had been quiet, unceremonious, and yet somehow permanent. My heart had wanted to scream, to pull him back, to curl around his warmth like I always had. But I hadn't. I had walked away. And that was the choice I had made.
Breathing in deeply, I sat up. One foot touched the cold floor, and the reality of the morning hit me fully. Alone. Not because I wanted to be. Not because I had chosen to isolate myself entirely. But because I had no choice. I was alone, and the only person I could trust to protect my heart… was me.
I moved toward the bathroom, the tiles cold under my feet. I turned on the shower, letting the water run hot, almost scalding, and stepped under the stream. The water hit my shoulders and chest and ran down in rivulets, and for a moment, I let myself shiver. This was cleansing, symbolic. Every drop felt like it was washing away the version of me that had depended on him. The version of me that had let him in so easily, that had trusted him without question, that had believed love could forgive everything.
I let my thoughts wander as the water poured over me. I remembered the way his hands had trembled when he realized I was letting go. I remembered the tears spilling down his face, raw and desperate. I remembered how close I had been to breaking, how easy it would have been to reach for him again, to give in. And I reminded myself that giving in was exactly what had nearly destroyed me before.
When I finally stepped out, I wrapped myself in a towel and went to the mirror. The reflection staring back at me was calm, composed, almost foreign. Swollen eyes, yes, from crying, but the edges of my expression were sharp, deliberate. I studied my face: the set of my jaw, the steadiness of my gaze. This girl, the one staring back at me, wasn't fragile. She wasn't the girl who had let herself crumble at his hands. She was stronger, colder, untouchable. She was ready.
I dressed carefully. Neutral colors. Crisp lines. Clothes that were armor, not fashion. Each piece I put on was intentional, a small act of control. My hair was pinned back deliberately, no softness, no vulnerability. I checked myself in the mirror one last time before leaving the room. Every inch of me screamed control. Every inch of me reminded me: I didn't need him. I couldn't afford him anymore.
As I walked to the kitchen for a quick breakfast, the apartment felt too quiet. The usual hum of life seemed distant, almost nonexistent. My mind kept replaying snippets of last night: the balcony, the brush of his hand against mine, the way he had looked at me with that mixture of hope and fear. I swallowed hard and forced myself to focus on the mundane. Coffee. Toast. A quick scan of my phone to make sure no messages had come in. Nothing. Good.
I sat at the table, hands wrapped around the warmth of my mug. Every sip reminded me that I was still alive. That I had survived. That I had made a choice. Letting go hadn't meant relief. It hadn't meant freedom yet. But it had meant clarity. And clarity was better than any fleeting warmth he could have offered.
The walk to campus was deliberate. Each step measured. I avoided the usual shortcuts where we had crossed paths before. My pace was steady, almost too steady, like I was trying to convince myself that I wasn't thinking about him at all. But every shadow, every slight movement of someone ahead of me, made me tense for a moment, thinking it might be him. And then I reminded myself: he didn't belong here. Not anymore.
When I reached the main gate, I caught sight of him from the corner of my eye. Keifer. Standing there. Waiting. The sunlight caught the edges of his hair, the tired lines under his eyes, the slight slump of his shoulders. He looked exhausted. Broken. And yet, he still had hope. That hope made my chest tighten.
I slowed my pace, but I didn't stop. My hands clenched lightly at my sides, and I forced my expression into calm neutrality. He called out, his voice low, almost pleading.
"Jay," he said. "Please… just a minute."
I stopped. Not because I wanted to. Not because I felt my heart break again. But because I decided to let him have this one chance to see me, to face the consequences of his choices. I turned slowly, meeting his gaze with deliberate calm.
"You shouldn't be here," I said evenly.
His eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn't expected me to say that. "I needed to see you," he said, stepping forward. "I thought… if I could just explain—if I could just make you understand—"
"There's nothing left to explain," I interrupted, my voice calm but sharp. "You had your chance."
His jaw tightened. "That's not true. It isn't over."
"It is for me," I replied softly, my eyes unwavering.
He stepped closer. "I can fix this. I'll wait. I'll do anything. I'll prove it."
I shook my head slowly. "You still think access to me is something you earn. It's not. You don't get a say in my life just because you're sorry."
He faltered, a flicker of panic in his expression. His hands twitched at his sides, but he didn't reach. Not yet.
"I'm not punishing you," I said, my voice steady. "I'm protecting myself."
He swallowed. "From me?"
"Yes."
The words hit him harder than any argument could.
"Jay…" he whispered, voice breaking.
"I loved you," I said softly, almost painfully calm. "But love isn't permission."
Silence stretched between us, a physical thing. Students walked past, oblivious to the tension that could have shattered walls.
"You don't get to stand here," I added. "You don't get to ask for a place in my life anymore."
He blinked. "So that's it?"
I nodded once.
"Yes."
I turned and walked away.
He didn't follow. He couldn't.