Fifteen Years of Craving The Wrong Love
Probably hasn’t thought about me once since he walked out the door.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images come anyway, his hand on her, laugh in his ear, confessing love to her.
Fresh tears leak out the corners of my eyes, hot against the pillow.
I grab my phone to distract myself, open I*******m because pain enjoys company, apparently.
The i*******m algorithm is cruel tonight.
The very first post on my feed is Isabella’s.
It’s a carousel.
First photo is the two of them on some rooftop garden lit by fairy lights, arms wrapped around each other, foreheads touching, smiling at themselves.
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