Page 102 of Deliah
“Don’t you dare leave me in this,” Cherry said, turning to me. “Anything he’s got to say, he can say in front of you. I want a witness for my downfall.”
I sat back down. Sipped my coffee. Silently regretted all my life choices.
“Cherry,” Tommy tried again, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” she said, her voice quieter now but more dangerous. “You never know what to say. You don’t do big conversations. You don’t do labels. You don’t do vulnerability. You just… exist. Float through life in your little bubble, hoping the women you casually half date don’t ask for anything inconvenient. Like, oh, I don’t know—effort.”
He flinched slightly. “That’s not true. I liked what we had.”
She stared at him. “You liked it because it was easy for you. I did all the emotional heavy lifting. I gave, and you… coasted. You were charming when you needed to be, affectionate when it suited you, but the second I wanted more? You tightened up like I asked for your PIN number.”
“I didn’t know you wanted more,” he said, genuinely confused.
“Really?” she asked. “You didn’t catch on when I said, ‘I want more,’ like six times? Or when I asked you if we were exclusive, and you replied, ‘We don’t need to label everything, do we?’ Honestly, Tommy, I could’ve proposed, and you’d have said, ‘Let’s just see how it goes.’”
He winced. “Okay… maybe I got it wrong.”
“Maybe?” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “You treated me like a placeholder. A part-time girlfriend. You introduced me as your‘friend’ after I’d literally just left your bed. You think I didn’t notice that?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know,” she said, and for the first time, her voice cracked. “That’s what makes it worse.”
The room went quiet again. Her sarcasm slipped away for a moment, leaving behind the raw truth of it all. She looked tired. Not just hungover tired. Emotionally tired. The kind of tired you get when you’ve been holding out hope longer than you should.
“I didn’t need grand gestures,” she added softly. “I didn’t want you to write me a love song or buy me a diamond. I just wanted to feel like I mattered. Like I was more than a good time with good banter.”
“You do matter,” he said quietly.
She blinked. “Too late. I needed to hear that when I was crying on your bathroom floor because I felt invisible.”
He stepped forward again. “Just come back. We can talk. Really talk. Properly.”
She looked at him for a long beat. Then: “I’ll come back to get my stuff. That’s it. I’m booking a flight tomorrow.”
“What?”
“I’m done, Tommy.” Her voice broke, but she recovered fast. “I want love. The messy, inconvenient, heart-racing, real kind. And I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with casual when it’s breaking my heart.”
He stood still. Silent. Finally understanding, maybe. Or at least realising she wasn’t bluffing this time.
“Also,” she added, clearing her throat, “being in your flat feels like walking into a Rolex ad where no one actually loves anyone.”
That got a weak smile out of him, but she didn’t return it.
She turned to me and opened her arms. “Come here, give me a hug before I spiral into a playlist of sad songs and start narrating my life like a tragic Netflix original.”
I stood up and wrapped her in a hug. “Call me later?”
She nodded. “Absolutely. I’ll need someone to double-check my packing list and tell me I’m a bad bitch.”
“You are a bad bitch.”
“Damn right.”
And with that, she walked out, chin high and heart bruised but finally choosing herself. Tommy just stood there, watching the door, as if he’d just lost something important without realising it was ever his to lose.
After they left, Damion wandered back into the bedroom, rolling his eyes with a smirk and tossing his phone onto the dresser.
