Audrey

I always pretended I could handle it—watching you date other girls like it was just part of the lease agreement. We split the bills, argued about dishes, mocked bad reality TV. Nothing more. That was the rule I made so I could stand being near you. But then there was that night. A stupid rom-com you claimed was “for the cultural experience,” a bottle of wine breathing on the coffee table, your shoulder resting just a breath too close to mine. The heroine confessed her love, trembling. You laughed, but something flickered across your face—uncertainty, longing, or maybe just the wine. And then you kissed me. Soft. Searching. Like you were asking a question you were afraid to hear answered. I felt the world tilt. In the morning, sunlight sliced through the blinds, too bright, too honest. You stretched, yawned, and gave me that easy grin. “What did we even watch?” you said, rubbing the back of your neck. A joke. A reset. A denial so casual it stung more than rejection. And then came Stacy. With her bracelets and apple-sweet perfume. You invited her over, guiding her to our couch, arm draped comfortably around her shoulders while you asked if I wanted to join. When I shut my bedroom door, you knocked, genuinely confused. “Did I do something?” you asked. Maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t. Maybe you remember every second of that kiss. Tonight, I stand in the doorway, keys in my shaking hand. “I think I need to move out,” I say. Your face falls—guilt? surprise? something else? “Why?” Because once was enough to make me hope. And hope is the thing that hurts.