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I need to do this.

Frustrated and furious at myself for still letting him have this power over me, I sit up, lean against the headboard, and download a book on my phone. At least I can escape into another world, living heartbreak and joy through the characters if sleep refuses me.

Caught in the first chapter, twenty minutes later, I jump when the bathroom door suddenly opens.

Determined to ignore him, I continue reading as if I am completely alone in the room.

He goes to the dressing room, and after a few moments, he comes out and heads to the bed.

While I read quietly, forcing myself to stay silent, he sits there with his phone in hand, typing relentlessly. Every minute, the vibration pulses through the quiet room like tiny shocks, each tap of his fingers a hammer against my nerves.

It’s too quiet. The room hums with tension, empty of sound except for those vibrations and the constant tapping.

My patience snaps. I tell myself not to react, that it’s not worth it, that I shouldn’t care, but my body refuses to obey.

“If you plan to spend the night messaging your girlfriend,” I say, keeping my gaze on my phone as if he isn’t there, “you can move to the couch, or leave the room.”

Even without looking directly at me, he stops typing. I see him set the phone down, his head turning slowly toward me.

“Excuse me?” His voice is calm, detached, almost bored, but there’s an edge that feels deadly.

I don’t answer. I’m sure he heard me.

The awareness in the room is suffocating, pressing down on me like a weight. My jaw tightens, my pulse races, and I read the same line in my book for the fifth time, desperate to immerse myself in anything but him.

Then, out of nowhere, my phone flies from my hand. Shock freezes every muscle in my body.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, heart hammering.

“What did you just say?” he asks, his hand moving to block my phone, placing it between us on the bed.

His own phone vibrates on his other side, and my chest constricts, my stomach twisting in frustration, rage, and mostly hurt.

I turn fully toward him, staring. Reproach, anger, and something darker swirl together in my gaze.

“I said,” I move closer to the phone he stole, “you can move to the couch if you want to continue your erotic conversation with your girlfriend.”

Before I can touch my phone, he grabs it, keeping it away—a wall between us.

“I’m in my room. In my bed,” he says, voice flat, unyielding, almost cruel. “And I do what I want, where I want.”

I feel the urge to scream, to hit him, to vanish from the room and never look back.

But he’s right there—living proof of everything I hate about him. He takes what he wants, speaks without remorse. Most painfully, he doesn’t care. And this breaks my heart even more, because apparently, earlier wasn’t enough.

“Fuck you,” I snap, my voice tight, trembling with anger and humiliation.

I turn to leave the bed, to escape from the room before I shatter completely in front of him.

“You lost that right when you decided you could fuck others too,” he spits with disgust.

My body freezes on the edge of the bed. I turn back to him, all restraint gone, staring him down, unblinking.

“Lucky you, now you can fuck whoever you want,” I say, moving closer. “Give me my phone.”

If I’m going to spend the night in the living room, I need my escape.

He lets out a dark laugh, holding it just out of reach. Like always, his face is unreadable, but I don’t have the energy to try to decipher him. What’s the point anyway? His actions speak clearly.