At lunch, I went to the hospital just to be safe. Sitting alone in the sterile white corridor, the weight of everything finally crashed down.
My heart felt like it was filled with lead. Every time my mind drifted to Matthew, a sharp, physical pain pierced my chest.
The automated system called my number three times before I snapped out of it, hastily wiping the moisture from my eyes.
The doctor dressed the burn and prescribed anti-inflammatories.
Just as I finished paying, my phone buzzed. The special ringtone I'd assigned to Matthew.
My heart skipped—a traitorous reflex. I answered the video call quickly, knowing his patience ran thin.
"What?"
On the screen, his face was flushed. His eyes, glassy. Drunk.
"I'm not coming back tonight." His words slurred slightly. "Don't wait up."
The background was chaotic. Thumping bass. Flashing lights. A high-end club.
In five years together, he never told me who he was with or where he went. If I asked, he threatened to break up. I had always walked on eggshells, terrified of losing him.
But today, something in me snapped.
"Where are you right now?" I demanded, enunciating every word.
His brow furrowed. He clicked his tongue. "Don't ask so many questions."