Chapter 2: The fall out

Mabel

The apartment felt emptier than it had ever been. Not physically ,it was the same furniture, the same quiet hum of city life beyond the windows but the space Ethan had left behind pressed down on me like a weight.

I sank to the floor of the living room, still holding the pale pink blouse. My fingers traced the lipstick smear again and again, almost hoping it would vanish. But it didn’t...It never would.

And then he came back,looking angry like he's heard or seen something unforbidden..

Ethan leaned against the doorway, towel slung low around his hips, damp hair plastered to his forehead. He looked casual, relaxed, as if nothing had happened. My pulse jumped.,rage and despair collided in my chest.

“Do you want to explain this?” I asked, voice trembling but louder than I had intended.

He tilted his head, lips curling into a half-smile, sharp with mockery. “Explain what, exactly?”

I held up the blouse. “This... Your… her… What is this, Ethan?”

His laugh cut through the room like ice.It was short and cruel. “You seriously care about that? You’re overthinking everything, Mabel....God, you’re impossible sometimes.”

Impossible?The word pierced deeper than any slap could. My throat burned. I swallowed, fighting to keep my voice steady. “I trusted you so much” I whispered.

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing, but there was no remorse. “You’ve been stiff, frozen, brick-wall-ing me for months. I get frustrated. You can’t even act normal. You—” He smirked, shaking his head. “Mother Virgin.”

The words landed like a punch.....Mother Virgin. I stumbled back, heart hammering, chest tight.

“I… I…” My voice broke. I wanted to scream, to shake him until he saw the real me ,the me he had broken. But the air left my lungs.

He shook his head and headed for the door. “I’m done. I can’t deal with this anymore. You think too much,care too much and feel too little. Don’t follow me.”

He proudly said whatever he wanted to say and with that, he was gone. Door clicking shut,silence swallowed the apartment whole.

I sank to the floor again, the blouse pressed to my chest. My body shook—not just from grief, but humiliation, betrayal, and the dizzying vertigo of loneliness. My thoughts twisted. Am I not enough? Am I broken?

Minutes passed. Hours, maybe i didn’t notice. The sky outside the window shifted from muted grey to soft gold. Sunlight cut across the floor, warming nothing.

Finally, I reached for my phone. Lydia’s name popped up first in my contact list. My fingers trembled as I typed.

He left .. He called me… a Mother Virgin. I feel… destroyed lydia..

I said and burst out a cry

Her reply was instantaneous.

Oh, Mabel… I’m so sorry. But you’re not broken. You’re not at fault. You need to see the doctor I told you about. Now more than ever.

I stared at the screen. Could I really let a stranger see me like this? To know my numbness, my shame, my failure?

I typed, deleted, typed again and finally, I clicked sent:

I… I don’t know if I can. I’m too embarrassed.

You’re human. You’re allowed to feel. He lost his mind; that’s his problem. You need someone who understands. Please girl,Just go and see the doctor

Her words warmed something long dormant inside me, a spark and a tiny pulse of hope.

I swallowed the big lump in my throat ,my chest tight. Slowly, I realized I couldn’t stay here, paralyzed by shame or sorrow. I needed help. I needed… me back.

***

The next day, I found myself standing outside a small, discreet clinic tucked between two apartment buildings downtown. A white sign read:

“Dr. Adrian Cole — Specialist in Women’s Health & Confidence.”

My hands shook as I pushed the door open. The faint scent of vanilla and antiseptic hit me immediately, tangling with the memory of Ethan’s cologne, the lipstick, the betrayal. My stomach twisted.

“Can I help you?” a receptionist asked, smiling warmly.

“Yes… I have an appointment with Dr. Cole,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She gestured toward the waiting room. “Please, have a seat. He’ll see you shortly.”

I sank into a chair, knees pressed together, hands clasped tight. My pulse raced. My chest was tight. Every inch of me wanted to turn and run.

Then the door opened.

A man stepped in. Dark hair, sharp jawline, eyes like a storm about to break. He moved with calm confidence, and yet… there was something gentle in the tilt of his head, the way he looked at me.

“Miss Harlow?” His voice was smooth, measured, steady. But my chest fluttered in response, betraying my nerves.

“Yes,” I whispered. Breath catching.

“I’m Dr. Cole,” he said, extending his hand. Polite. Gentle. The electricity in the gesture made my knees weak. “Please, follow me.”

I did, walking into the office, heart hammering in my chest. Books lined the walls. A small couch. A desk. Everything was orderly, comforting.

“Please, sit,” he said, motioning to a chair. I sank into it, hands clutching each other in my lap.

He pulled out a notebook. “Your friend mentioned you’ve had some… difficulties lately.” His voice was soft, nonjudgmental.

“Yes,” I said, barely above a whisper. “I… I can’t… I don’t feel right…”

He nodded slowly. “It’s okay. You’re not broken. What you’re experiencing is more common than people realize. And you are not alone.”

His words were calm, steadying. Something flickered in my chest. A small spark of… possibility.

“I want to help,” he said gently. “But I need honesty. Nothing leaves this room. No judgment. Only truth.”

I nodded, swallowing hard. Hope, fear, and anticipation tangled in my chest.

For the first time in months, I let myself believe… maybe, just maybe, I could feel alive again.