Page 133 of The Jealous Girl

He didn’t.

Early morning light peeked through the curtains, and I shuffled up the bed.

I reached for my phone, opened WhatsApp and selected his name. I stared at the last message. It was from yesterday morning. There was nothing since. No “I miss you”, no apology; just silence.

I tapped the message box, my thumbs poised ready to type. But what would I say that was any different to what I’d already said?

I couldn’t make him talk to me.

I couldn’t make him stay.

I wouldn’t be able to make him come back, either.

He hadn’t come after me two years ago. Why would he now? Even our reunion hadn’t been because he’d sought me out. It had been a chance encounter.

I’d thought that was a sign. That it meant something. Perhaps it did, just not what I’d thought at the time. It wasn’t destiny; it was just a mistake.

I dropped the phone beside me on the bed and forced myself to get up.

Just make a cup of tea, that’s what Janine always said. Something simple. Something normal.

I shuffled down the hall towards the kitchen, my gaze drawn towards the door.

I stopped.

His key was still hanging on the hook.

I stared at it.

He always took his key. If he’d been planning on coming back, he would have taken it last night, too.

That realisation hit harder than anything he’d said.

He wasn’t coming back.

Deep down, I’d known it last night. But I’d still hoped. Until now.

Something inside me snapped. Shock and grief were shoved aside by something stronger. Darker.

I turned sharply and marched into the bedroom. I yanked open the wardrobe and grabbed the remaining clothes, throwing them on the floor at my feet.

‘Go, then,’ I snapped at them. ‘If you don’t want to be here, with me, then just go.’

The words came faster now. Sharper. All the things I hadn’t been able to say to him last night, spilling out. But shouting at them gave me no answers in return. No closure. Just stony silence.

I turned and my gaze landed on the photo of us beside the bed. I crossed the room and grabbed the frame, anger reverberating through my body as I yanked the back off and pulled the photo out. I didn’t even pause to think about what I was doing. My body was too caught up in the motion.

I needed control. Power. Something.

I tore the photo in half. Then again. And again.

Small pieces rained across the carpet like confetti. I stared at them, waiting for my anger to pass and remorse to hit.

But it didn’t.

My anger hadn’t gone; I knew that. I could still feel it lurking in every fibre of my being. It was quieter now. Still. But it wasn’t the calm that came after a storm. It was the kind that came in the eye of one.

I crouched down, running my fingers through the torn remnants of our photo. It felt symbolic of all that was left of us.