Page 93 of The Most Perfect Wrong

I watch her closely, the way she folds into herself. Damn, she’s shutting down, putting up walls I don’t know how to break through. What the hell has Brad done to her? It kills me to see her like this—like she’s disappearing right in front of me.

* * * * * ?* * * * *

She gets checked in, and I walk her to her room, pausing outside her door. “Can I pick you up on the way to work tomorrow?”

“Sure. That’d be great. She wraps her arms around me, and I pull her into me. “Thank you… for everything,” she says, breathing in deeply. “There’s that Ryan smell.” She pulls back, offering a soft smile. “Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight. Please text or call me if you need anything, okay?”

She nods, her gaze lingering, her eyes meeting mine in a way that takes my breath away every time.

Finally, she lets go, and I watch, helpless, as she slips inside her room, leaving me standing in the hallway, wishing I could protect her from everything that causes her pain. I rake my hands through my hair, frustrated as hell. I’ve never felt this fucking powerless before.

Chapter 28

COOPER

I close the door behind me, leaning against it as everything crashes down. My body trembles beneath me, and I feel myself breaking—splintering into pieces. A loud sob escapes my lips, and I clasp a hand over my mouth, terrified that Ryan might still be standing on the other side of the door. I squeeze my eyes shut, stifling a cry as I roll my luggage into the room.

The silence in here is depressing, pressing down on me like a suffocating fog—making me feel lonelier than ever. My phone dings, the sound cutting through the quiet like a blade. I glance at it, dreading what I already know will be there.

Brad:Are you really this desperate? Throwing yourself at someone like Ryan? I deserve better than this bullshit.

Another comes immediately after.

Brad:Go ahead. Keep ignoring me, acting like a whore for him. You’ll regret this—I’ll make sure of that. I know your deepest, darkest secrets, Cooper. Remember that.

The words hit me like a slap, and a cry rips from my throat—a raw, primal sound I can’t control. My hands clutch at my hair as the anguish floods me. It feels like I’ve been stabbed in the gut, the blade jagged and twisting. The pain isn’t new; it’s been simmering for years, dull and constant, like a wound I’ve learned to live with. But now? Now, it’s unbearable, the knife plunging deeper, festering and infected, stealing what’s left of me.

I crawl onto the bed, curling into myself as I rock back and forth on my knees. My breaths come in short, frantic gasps, each sob tearing through me, threatening to shatter what’s left of my heart.

It feels like a blindfold has been ripped away—like a blind person suddenly given the gift of sight. The overwhelming awe at the simple beauty of the world, mixed with the gut-wrenching sorrow for everything they’ve missed. That’s exactly how I feel—but with love. For every breathtaking moment of clarity, there’s a sharp ache, the devastation of realizing everything I’ve been blind to was within my grasp—if only I’d known to reach further.

I’ve been here all along, surrounded by the possibility of love, of being seen, of being valued—but I couldn’t see it. And now? The pain of knowing what I could have had—it’s almost too much to bear.

It’s not just the five years with Brad—it’s everything before him: the childhood dreams of who I wanted to be, crushed by men before him; the wrong lessons about what love was supposed to look like; all the hurt I let shape me. I see it now, the choices I made, the way I kept choosing men who used my weaknesses against me, who whittled away at my confidence.

I wipe at my cheeks, the sting of my tears lingering. God, if only we could go back and redo the things that fucked us up—armed with what we know now. But I guess that’s the cruel joke of it all, isn’t it? The scars teach us. But they also mark us, forever reminding us of what we’ve lost.

I clutch the pillow beneath me, resting my hot cheek against the cool pillowcase—desperate to ground myself. For a brief moment, the sensation calms me, like a balm against the cracked, raw surface of my emotions. But the truth doesn’t stop—it sweeps through me, wild and unrelenting. I didn’t just lose years—I lost myself. And now, I can’t help but wonder: did Iever truly know who I was? When I’m with Ryan, someone else emerges—someone I don’t recognize. She’s unfamiliar, almost foreign. She feels happy.God, how long has it been since I’ve felt that?

The silence presses on me like a weight I can’t bear. I fumble with my phone, the smooth glass screen trembling beneath my fingers as I open Spotify. I tap ‘Today’s Hits,’ needing something—anything—to fill the suffocating emptiness around me.

Two songs play as tears streak my cheeks, my mind spinning in endless circles. “Favorite Song” by Toosii comes on next. I’ve heard it before, but this is the first time I reallyhearit. The lyrics hit me immediately, like they were written for me—for this moment, wrapping around me like a blanket. The song speaks of exhaustion— the hurt, the lies, the cheating—and the relentless thoughts of leaving.

The words seep into me, cutting deep. The chorus begins, and its message is unmistakable: you need someone who doesn’t make you question yourself. Someone who doesn’t leave you waiting or doubting. Someone who loves you without needing a reason—who can bring peace to your chaos. Someone… like Ryan.

I think about the way he held me earlier, his arms strong and steady, like they were built to shield me from the war inside me. The scent of his shirt lingers faintly in my mind, and I laugh-cry at the memory of him asking for it back. And the way he looked at me—not with pity, but with something deeper. Something safe. Something real.

Tears stream down my cheeks, falling not just for the years I wasted, or the damage Brad inflicted, but for the possibility of something better. For the chance to be with someone who doesn’t just see the cracks but wants to help me mend them.

But what if I’m too broken for someone like Ryan? What if he sees my mess and decides I’m not worth it? I’ve spent so manyyears being used, being left, being told I’m not enough or that I’m really only good for one thing. What if I’m not enough for him, either?

I push that demon aside, reminding myself: Ryan’s seen me at my worst—mean, spiraling, drunk.

He’s still here.

He’s still waiting.

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