At that moment, I really believed she had me in her heart.
She remembered, she had to remember.
That day when the street punk came at her with a knife, I didn’t hesitate and stepped in front of her. While the blade missed my heart by just one centimeter, I was in a coma for three days and nights. She cried at my bedside back then, swearing she’d love me forever.
But she hadn’t kept that in her heart.
Or maybe, to her, that scar was just a reason to live recklessly, knowing I’d never stop protecting her.
The doctor once warned me that too much stress could tug at the nerves around that old wound. So I tilted my head back, trying to swallow down the bitterness, but my chest still felt unbearably heavy.
Just then, my phone buzzed. It was Cassandra with loud rock music blasting in the background.
“Nathan, the girls are throwing me a ‘single-life farewell’ party tonight. Go to bed early, don’t wait up.”
I paused for two seconds before noting, “Alright.”
By three in the morning, I still couldn’t sleep, so I scrolled through social media.
There, I saw Rachel had posted a photo set with the caption: [Cheers to my bestie’s last night of freedom!]