Sinful contract: Hard Limit, soft moans

I woke up to the dull, gray ache of light spilling through thin pink curtains, the kind of light that felt too honest, It didn’t glow, It glared. I and my Bestie Mala's bedroom, if I could even call it that, was a cramped box of contradictions, bright pink walls, once painted in the innocent enthusiasm of girlhood, now dulled with neglect, I had thought of repainting it to a dark blue colour, but I had no money to even buy a bucket of paint, Posters of Justin Bieber my teenage crush still clung to the walls like ghosts of a time when hope came easily, and love was something you could pin above your bed.

  I blinked, my eyes gritty, my lashes crusted from dried tears my mascara smudged the corners of my lids like bruises I didn’t remember getting. it was no physical bruise, it's an emotional one . My body was stiff, my muscles sore, as though heartbreak came with physical consequences, and maybe it did. I lay still on the small bed I shared with Mala, my breathing shallow, trying to delay the moment I’d have to face it all again.

  The silence was heavy, too complete. My best friend and roommate Mala wasn't home from work yet, I glanced at my phone, no text chime, no morning call. Just the sound of my own heart thudding like an echo in a hollow space.

  My fingers groped the edge of the bed for my phone. It was buried in the duvet, cracked and slightly warm from my body heat. I unlocked it, not because I expected a message but because I needed proof that the world was still spinning. That I hadn’t disappeared overnight.

  The banking app was already open from the night before. I don’t know why I kept checking it, like it might change, I stared at the screen again.

  Roughly fifty dollars.

  I stared at the number on the app willing it to increase , my throat felt tight. A made a whining sound then half laugh, half sob, "Ivana your life is pathetic" I murmured to myself, my mumur scraped through my throat like gravel.

  “Forty-eight fucking dollars,” I whispered, dragging a hand down my face.

  I sat up slowly, my back brushing against the cold wall, the bed creaking beneath me. It was a secondhand twin-size, covered in a Hello Kitty blanket I never had the heart to replace. A relic from better days, it was a gift from Mala's aunt.

  The ache in my chest turned sharper as memories clawed their way to the surface. Zavier.

  His stupid smirk. The smell of engine oil on his skin. The way he’d lie so easily, then turn the blame on me. He has cheated on me so many times I have lost count, stupid prick .

  “You’re lucky I’m even with you, Ivy,” he had said once, after I found a pair of panties in his glove compartment. “Most girls don’t come with a rulebook.”

  But I’d stayed, vulnerable and weak.

  I stayed because I had nowhere else to go. Because he paid the electric bill, because he said he loved me, sometimes, when no one else would.

  Because he bought me dinner and let me cry in his car without asking why.

  And because I wouldn’t sleep with him.

  Because I wouldn’t give him the one thing I still had to bargain with, my virginity

  I stood up and crossed the room, the faded carpet brushing beneath my bare feet, the floor felt cold beneath my feet, I saw my reflection in the mirror and it startled me.

  My hair was tangled around my face, thick and pale like spun gold but knotted like it had been through a windstorm. My eyes icy blue, wide, too big for my face, I couldn't even recognize myself, I looked haunted. My full lips were dry and cracked.

  I looked like a girl who hadn’t been kissed in months, ok scratch that, haven't been kissed at all. Part of the reason Zavier broke up with me, yes I denied him kissing me.

 I wrapped my arms around myself, my body was everything magazines worshipped, I am tall, impossibly hourglass shaped, with breasts too big for most dresses and hips that made other women whisper. I knew I was beautiful. I’d been told that my whole life, even by women who wanted me as their Lesbian partner.

  And still, I wasn’t enough.

  The thought hit me like a slap.

  My fingers hovered over the call log. His name was still there.

  Zavier 

  I bit my lip, hesitated, I needed to hear his voice, against better judgement I dialed his number

  It rang once.

  Twice.

  “Hello?” His voice was sharp, casual, like I’d interrupted something.

  My heart thudded. “Zay? Baby, please... talk to me.”

  There was a pause then laughter and it was not his.

  A woman’s voice giggled in the background, Wet, intimate laughter. My stomach twisted, of course he is with another woman already, what was I thinking, that he cared?

  “Zavier,” I whispered. “Can we just... talk? Please. We can fix this. I know things got messed up, but we’ve been through worse. I still love you. I just... I need you.” I pleaded shameless, disgusted with my own self

  The laughter faded, replaced by a smug silence.

  Then his voice, cruel and distant:

  “You’re a child, Ivana.”

  I froze as I heard the mockery in his voice 

  “A woman’s body with a little girl’s brain. You think I waited this long to keep jerking myself off while you clutched your damn purity ring?”

  My mouth went dry.

  “Zay—”

  “We’re done. Grow up, princess.”

  The call ended.

  Just like that.

  The phone slid from my hand and landed on the floor with a dull clack. I stood there, shaking, breath caught somewhere between a scream and a sob.

  And then I broke.

  I collapsed onto the bed, the mattress creaking under the weight of my grief. I buried my face into the pillow and let the tears come in hot, choking waves. My shoulders trembled my chest heaved.

  I cried like something sacred had been ripped out of me.

  Because maybe it had.

  I had saved myself.

  Waited, believed Zavier is the one

  And in the end, it didn’t matter, not to Zavier and definitely not to the publishers who sent back my manuscript with cold, clinical lines about "lacking emotional intensity."

 it didn't matter to the world.

  Maybe being a virgin wasn’t strength maybe it was a burden.

  I rolled onto my back, stared at the ceiling. The fan spun in lazy circles, like it didn’t care either.

  “I just wanted to matter,” I whispered.

  The words disappeared into the silence.

  Outside, a car horn blared, the world kept moving, not caring about Ivana

  But I stayed curled in bed, in my girly pink room, with Justin Bieber smirking above me and my heart shattered like a dropped perfume bottle.

  I didn’t know it yet.

  But tonight, everything would change.