Page 20 of If He Hadn't Cheated
He walks back inside. Leaves me in the cold. And for the first time in weeks, I feel the tears start again.
Not from betrayal. Not from shame. Not because of Sebastian.
For choosing wrong.
And I don’t know how to handle that.
9
Idon’t remember the dream, just the feeling it left behind.
Waking up feels like surfacing from a dark ocean in need of air, lungs burning, heart thudding, skin clammy. I sit up in bed with a gasp, my shirt clinging to me with sweat, sheets tangled around my ankles like vines.
I reach for my phone. No missed calls. No messages. No emails. Just silence and the digital glare of 10:42 a.m.
My stomach cramps, sharp and sudden. I curl forward, gripping my sides.
It’s the third morning in a row. The headaches started two days ago. Then came the shakes. The nausea. The irritability. And the nightmares.
It’s not just hangover anymore.
It’s withdrawal.
For the past three days I haven’t had a drink, a line coke, or pills. It feels like agony ripping from the inside trying to pull me back in. This is the fourth day I haven’t touched anything and I thought it would get better.
It wasn’t some dramatic decision. It just happened. Like my body had hit a wall. Like my skin finally screamed, no more.But I know it wasn’t that. It was him.
Knox.
And now here I am — stuck between two hells: the one where I used, and the one where I don't.
The worst part is how quiet everything is besides the noise in my head has been replaced with static. I keep waiting for it to clear, but it doesn’t.
I force myself into the shower. The water is too hot. I turn it cold. Then hot again. I don’t know what I want. I scrub myself raw, but I still feel dirty.
When I get out, I dress in jeans and an oversized sweater. Something soft. Something that doesn't cling.
I glance at myself in the mirror. I look tired. But underneath the exhaustion, there’s something else.
Something... alive.
And it scares me.
I make it to the Velvet Room by 5:30 p.m. I’m early again.
That’s new.
Jazz is already there, doing inventory. “You’re glowing,” she says with a smile placing a box on the floor.
I blink at her. “What?”
“You just look... lighter.”
I shrug. “Must be the fluorescent lighting.”
She doesn’t push. Just hands me the clipboard and walks off.
The night starts slow. It’s Tuesday. The crowd is half-full, mostly suits and the lonely. People who want to be seen without having to talk too much.
