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“So, then that’s it?” I question, disbelief riddling my words.
“I guess it is,” he mutters, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.
I hesitate a moment longer before I push past him, taking the porch steps entirely too fast for the type of footwear I have on. I don’t care. At this point, I wouldn’t care if I face planted on the concrete and knocked myself unconscious. At least then I wouldn’t have to feel the pain that is currently tearing its way through my chest.
I knew this would end.
I knew that hoping he would want more was a fruitless act.
I knew he would only hurt me.
And yet I did it anyway.
I walked right into the lion’s den and offered myself up on a silver platter.
And as much as I want to hate Atlas for it, it’s no one’s fault but my own.
I expect him to come after me. The whole walk home I keep looking over my shoulder, hoping he might be there. But every single time I’m filled with more disappointment, more heartbreak.
By the time I push my way inside the apartment, what little buzz I had is long gone. My feet ache and my fingers are half numb, but none of that compares to the absolute devastation inflicted on my heart.
I kick off my boots and strip out of my dress, not the least bit concerned if someone might walk in. Right now, I wouldn’t care if they did.
I dress in a pair of lounge pants and tank top, washing my face and brushing my teeth before curling into a ball on the couch, throwing my blanket over my head.
I smell him all around me, as if he were lying right next to me. If I close my eyes, I can almost feel him there. A memory so potent, it almost feels real. And then comes the staggering reality that every touch, every kiss, every moment with him is now just that... a memory.
