Page 44 of Deliah
I nodded, shame washing over me. “I’m back with him. He’s been coming over for weeks.”
Her face twisted, a mix of anger and heartbreak. “Deliah… what the fuck are you doing?”
I covered my face with both hands. “I don’t know—I don’t know. I still love him. But I don’t want to love him anymore, Cherry. I promise you I don’t fucking want to.”
She let out a breath and wrapped her arms around me tighter. “Oh, babe…”
“I don’t want to hurt anymore,” I whispered, voice cracking.
She stroked my hair gently. “I know. I know that feeling. Like it’s got you by the throat, and no matter how much you scream, no one hears it.”
“I can’t let him go. I’ve tried. I’ve really tried.” I looked up at her, mascara smudged, chest still heaving. “I’m fucked, Cherry. I really am.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment. Just held me like she wanted to squeeze the pain out of my body and carry it for me. “You’re not fucked,” she finally said softly. “You’re in love with someone who’s killing you.”
Her words hit me like a slap, but not a cruel one. A necessary one.
“One day,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from my face, “you’ll realise you don’t deserve this kind of love. That it’s not even love at all. Just an addiction dressed up as comfort.”
I rested my head on her shoulder, the fight in me gone. “I want to be free of him,” I whispered. “But when he touches me, I forget everything.”
Cherry exhaled, long and low. “That’s how they get you. With the highs. The flashbacks. The what-ifs. But you deserve better than this pain.”
“I just wish I knew how to start again.”
She kissed the top of my head. “You don’t have to start again today. Just… start with not going back.”
And for the first time in weeks, I let myself hope that maybe—just maybe—I could.
That night, after my shift at the club, I gathered every last thing Jay had ever left at my apartment—his t-shirts, his toothbrush, that stupid hoodie I used to sleep in, even his half-empty bottleof cologne. I threw it all into a plastic bag and left it by the door. I’d made up my mind. I was done. Done with the whiplash of being wanted and discarded. Done with the way he crawled back into my bed and body like nothing had happened. Done with bleeding out slowly while he played house whenever it suited him.
He knocked like he always did. Two soft taps, then one loud. I opened the door. He stepped inside like he owned the fucking place.
“What’s the matter, babe?” he asked, all calm and charm, flashing that fake soft smile like he hadn’t wrecked me five times already.
I didn’t smile back.
“I’m done,” I said, voice clipped. “This? You? Us? I’m out.”
He blinked, clueless. “Wait—what?”
I nodded to the bag by the door. “Take your shit. Leave.”
He stared at it. Then laughed.Laughed. “You’re not serious.”
“I am. I’m fucking done, Jay.”
“You always say that when you’re tired or hormonal.”
That was it.
“Are you… fucking joking?” I snapped, stepping towards him. “Don’t you dare reduce this to hormones. I am DONE. Not moody. Not emotional. DONE.”
He raised his hands. “Okay, okay, relax—”
“Relax? You want me to relax?” I exploded, voice breaking with rage. “Do you know what it’s like? Sitting by the phone like a twat while you disappear for days? Pretending it’s fine when youcrawl back in like nothing happened? Smiling through it like I don’t fucking feel it in my bones every time you leave me?!”
“Deliah, come on—”
