Page 126 of Unfaithful

Was it really? Because if she had managed to flip a switch and unlove me, then surely, she could just flip it back.

If only she would let herself.

If only she would give me a chance.

Love isn't some irreversible condition, is it? If she could train her heart to forget me, to erase every piece of what we were, then what was stopping her from remembering? From choosing me again?

But that was the thing about chances—you don't get an unlimited supply. And maybe I had already burned through every single one.

Or was it just that she didn't want to?

And if she didn't want to, if she had decided that I wasn't worth the trouble, that I wasn't worthy of her, then what the fuck could I do about it?

I couldn't force her to love me. I couldn't undo the past with apologies and empty promises. If she had already made up her mind, if she had already closed the door, then maybe all I could do was stand outside and watch through the window as someone else gave her everything I should have.

I dragged a hand down my face, frustration tightening in my chest.

Self-reflection.

I knew it was necessary, but damn, it was fucking brutal. It meant plunging into the darkness, wading through the wreckage of memories, the highs, the lows, the unbearable truths. I had nothing but admiration for the rare souls who had the courage to confront their flaws and embrace the raw, unfiltered truth of their emotions.

I wished I could say I was one of those people. But I wasn't. Not yet anyway.

A million thoughts, a million what-ifs flooded my mind as I drove, the road stretching endlessly before me, as directionless as the mess I had made of my life.

No destination in mind.

Not with my driving. Not with my future.

Just me, the hum of the engine, and the weight of everything I had lost.

*** *** ***

I was a fucked-up disaster of unchecked, bleeding emotions.

Losing her left a void nothing could fill. The days crawled by, empty and colorless, but it was the nights that truly broke me. The bed felt too big, the silence too loud. Mornings were a battle I lost before I even opened my eyes. Food turned to dust in my mouth. My thoughts refused to settle. And simply existing? It was agony.

And not once could I help but wonder if I should have swallowed my pride and begged instead. Because maybe having only part of her was better than not having her at all.

I'd catch myself staring at my phone, her name lit up on the screen like a challenge. My fingers hovered over the call button, the urge to hear her voice clawing at me.

I wanted to call. Needed to see her.

But I knew I couldn't. I couldn't do anything.

So I hurled my phone against the wall, watching it shatter on impact. But it didn't make a difference. It didn't ease the ache in my chest or silence the chaos in my head.

All I felt was emptiness. And pain. Nothing else.

All I could think about was how much I missed Sara. It was an all-consuming void, a constant weight pressing down on me. No matter how hard I tried to push it down, the longing never faded. It only grew stronger. Most days, I retreated into my mind, losing myself in every memory I had with her.

During those bleak, unending days—weeks, maybe even months—I knew Leo, Steve, and Bobby had been there. I couldn't remember when exactly, couldn't recall the details, but I knew they had come. They had looked after me, making sure I didn't completely fall apart.

Or maybe I already had, and they were just there to pick up the pieces.

When I finally pulled myself together enough to see things clearly, lucid enough to take in my surroundings, I saw Steve perched on my kitchen counter. My new apartment—barely furnished, still unfamiliar—felt more like a stranger's space than my own.

I blinked at him, my voice hoarse from disuse. "What day is it?"

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