Page 46 of Deliah
The next few weeks felt like some warped fairytale—one where I knew the curse was coming but still danced at the ball. Jay was... different. Or pretending well enough to sell the fantasy. Morning texts. Voice notes. That charm he weaponised like ascalpel. He brought food round, cooked like a budget Gordon Ramsay, danced around the kitchen with a tea towel slung over his shoulder like he belonged in a rom-com. I laughed. I let myself laugh. And for a while, I forgot. We fell back into each other. Slow. Soft. Almost sweet. He held my face when he moved inside me. Said “I love you” like it could fix things. And I believed him—because I wanted to. Because it was easier than admitting I was still bleeding from all the times he didn’t. He asked me to be his girlfriend. Properly. Said he wanted the world to know I was his. Posted a picture of us with the caption, “She’s trouble, but she’s mine.” I cringed—but I smiled. At least I was finally visible.
I told Cherry during a beach walk. She raised a brow, but when she saw my face—how hopeful I looked—she hugged me and said, “Maybe it was just a glitch.”
That was all I needed. One tiny scrap of permission to believe again. So I fell. Hard. Again. We messed around on the beach, kissed under the waves, played house like it meant something. And then one day, he turned to me and said, “My flatmate’s moving out. Can I stay with you for a bit?” Of course I said yes. Of course I was excited. It felt like the next step in our fake little future. He talked about getting a place back in the UK. Starting fresh. He made it sound real. But it didn’t take long for the cracks to show.
He’d disappear for hours with excuses that sounded more like cover stories. “Popped into the city.” “Went to the gym.” And even without lipstick stains or text receipts—I knew. The gut never lies. He was back to his old shit. Out fucking other girls while I was still grinding for rent. I couldn’t even tell Cherry. I was too ashamed. Ashamed I’d let him back in. Ashamed I’d once been a woman who knew her worth—and now I couldn’t even find it. He’d stripped it from me, piece by piece, and I’d handed him the knife. I told myself I’d leave, that I’d pack histhings and I’d do it properly this time, but I didn’t. Because I didn’t know how to leave someone who’d made a home out of my damage. Because I still loved him, and that was the sickest part of all.
A few more weeks passed, and just like that, the season was over. The sunburnt nights, the club shifts, the messy magic of it all—it ended like someone flicked off the lights. Our apartment lease ran out. The illusion cracked wide open, and I knew I needed space. Real space. Not just an afternoon out of the house or sleeping on the sofa. I needed to breathe without him next to me, without wondering what lie I was being fed that day. I sat him down on the edge of the bed. The place where everything always started and ended. “I’m going home for a bit,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just to clear my head.”
He didn’t argue. Just rubbed his jaw and nodded slowly. “Maybe that’s a good idea,” he said. “I’ve been thinking of going back for a bit, too. See my mum. Catch up with some mates.”
I forced a smile. “We can meet in England in a few weeks. Talk properly. See where we’re at.”
His eyes flicked up to mine. “Yeah. Let’s do that. Get our heads straight.”
We weren’t on great terms. Too many unsaid things between us. Too much tension simmering under the surface. But I was still in love. Stupid, wrecked, deluded love. And deep down, some fragile part of me believed he was, too.
That last night is burned into my memory like a scar. We didn’t talk much. Didn’t fight either. It was just quiet. Loaded. Heavy with the weight of goodbye. The kind that feels too final even when you’re pretending it’s temporary. We had sex. Over and over. Like our bodies were trying to speak what our mouths couldn’t. Like we were trying to carve the memory of each other into skin so it couldn’t be undone. It was slower that night. Softer. Almost sweet, if it hadn’t been so damn sad. He kissed my collarbone like it meant something. Traced my spine with his fingertips like he was trying to memorise it.
“I love you so much,” he whispered, breath warm against my ear.
“I love you too,” I whispered back, even though it felt empty.
He pulled me closer, forehead to mine. “This isn’t the end. You know that, right?”
I nodded.
“We’re just pressing pause,” he said, brushing my hair from my face. “When we’re back in England, we’ll figure everything out. I swear.”
And I believed him. God, I believed him.
The next morning, he drove me to the airport. Played one of our old songs in the car. Held my hand at red lights. Made everything feel… almost normal. He pulled up at the drop-off zone and turned the engine off.
“You sure you don’t want me to come in?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, it’ll be harder.”
He nodded like he understood. Then he leaned in and kissed me slowly, lingering. “I’ll see you soon, baby,” he said. “Text me when you land. I’ll miss you like mad.”
“I’ll miss you too.”
He helped me with my bag. Kissed me again. One last time. And then I walked through the terminal doors, turning back to wave.
That was the last time I ever saw Jay. No, I’m not joking, the last timeever.
He ghosted me. Gone. Just like that. No call. No text. No “I’m sorry.” No “this isn’t working.” Nothing.
At first, I thought something had happened. I messaged. Called. Sent a voice note. A picture. A memory. A desperate, stupid “Are you okay?” Then came the silence, the kind that echoes. He disappeared from social media. Deleted his Instagram. Changed his number. None of his mates knew anything—or at least they pretended not to. It was like he’d vanished into thin air. Like the whole thing—our whole fucking relationship—was some elaborate hallucination. And me? I shattered. Completely. Utterly. Quietly.
I spent the next few days curled up in my childhood bedroom like a ghost in my own life. The wallpaper I used to love now looked like a prison. I stared at the ceiling for hours, playing it all back in my head like a film I couldn’t turn off. How can someone love you like that—fuck you like that—hold your hand and plan a future, only to vanish like you were nothing? Like they were never real? I stopped eating. I stopped sleeping. I stopped speaking. My mum hovered outside the door sometimes, too scared to come in. I told her I was just jetlagged. But I wasn’t. I was grieving someone who was still alive. Someone who’d made a choice to disappear without a trace.
And the worst part? Sometimes I still check. Still type his name into search bars. Still scroll old posts I know aren’t there. Still wonder if he’s out there, thinking of me. Still wonder if he ever meant a single word. Because some ghosts don’t haunt you. You do that all on your own.
Chapter 18 –
Baileys and Bruises
That winter, I was a shell—moving, speaking, smiling when it was expected of me. But underneath, I was hollow. Cracked open in places I didn’t know existed. I cried for weeks. Mornings were the worst. Waking up and remembering all over again. That ache in your chest before your eyes even open—the one that whispershe’s gonebefore your feet hit the floor. I spent time with my family. I had tea with my mum and let her fuss over me like I was twelve again. She knew something had happened, but I didn’t have the words. Not yet.
