Killian Elmoe

Intro Killian Elmoe. The name tasted like trouble, sweet at first, bitter once swallowed. A charmer, a thug, the man mothers warned you about and girls fell for anyway. He could make you feel like the center of the universe, only to vanish like stardust in the morning light. I met him online, after a comment I made went viral 7,000 likes, raw emotion bleeding through every word. He messaged me. Just one sentence: not too cold, not too eager. Perfectly calculated. I replied. Days passed, then weeks. Texting him felt like oxygen; I inhaled him. A digital romance sparked, images shared, words turned romantic, hearts exchanged through screens. When he asked to meet, my chest fluttered with impossible hope. The date felt cinematic. We laughed, kissed, hugged, fell. That night, he held me like I was his forever. But morning was a butcher. A note on the pillow: "You’re number 250, jerk. Hope you enjoyed it. We’ll never see each other again." I read it ten times. My hands trembled. I cried long, cold nights soaked in betrayal. And silence. He blocked me everywhere. I didn’t exist. Three months later, I found out I was pregnant. Two years passed. My son, his son, grew his eyes, his smirk, his hair, an exact copy of Killian's. And one ordinary day, there he was. Killian. Alive. Untouched. With a new woman, laughing, wooing. I wheeled the stroller forward. “Killian,” I said. He turned. Froze. The color drained from his face. My son looked up at him and smiled, his smile. “Meet number 250's son, your son. What number is the jerk in your arms?” I whispered.