Page 89 of Our Final Encore

My heart feels like it’s crumbling in my chest, folding in on itself. I want to say no, I want to beg her to take it back, but I can’t. The look on her face is too resolute, void of any sadness orpain. I won’t give up, but right now, the last thing she deserves is another fight.

So instead I nod once, and swallow down all the bitter emotions rattling around in my chest. I need to be brave for her, for our baby, and give her all the space and time she needs. Eventually she’ll see that we’re meant to be together, even if right now she refuses to believe it.

FIFTY-FOUR

Opal

Bed rest sucks. After three days of it, I’ve concluded that much. I’ve always been a bit of a homebody, but being forced to stay home and sit is a lot less fun than choosing to do it by your own free will.

My laptop rests on the empty side of the bed beside me, playing yet another episode of That 70’s Show. I’ve been switching between watching Netflix and re-reading my favorite dystopian novel, but as soon as I got to the part where the main character starts having feelings for her opponent I had to put it down. I’m not in the mood for romance, I want to pretend it doesn’t even exist.

I hate that I was foolish enough to let my guard down and let things go that far with Alex again. After I specifically promised myself I wouldn’t.

Truth is, I’m not ready for a relationship. With him or anyone. Maybe I never will be, maybe I’m just too scarred by the past to give that part of myself up again. The thought scares me,I don’t want to be alone. In fact, I know that Iwantto be with Alex.

I want to raise our baby together, and laugh together, and listen to every new song he writes before anyone else gets to. But I just don’t know how. I feel like I’m broken.

My phone pings and vibrates on my nightstand, alerting me of a new notification. I ignore the sound, not wanting to acknowledge the world outside of my bedroom, but it continues to vibrate, over and over. Grunting a dissatisfied sigh, I reach over and peek at the screen to see who’s calling me.

There’s no name or number on my screen though, just a long list of instagram notifications. As I’m staring at the screen another one pops up, then another.

What the hell?

I unplug the phone and hold it over my face, tapping on one of the many notifications.

52 new followers

104 new likes

My brows scrunch together in confusion. I haven’t posted anything in a few days, and even if I had, I rarely receive this much engagement at one time on here. Most of my posts only receive somewhere between 50 and 100 likes, despite having a decent amount of followers, damn algorithm.

I scroll through the notification tab, shaking my head until I come across one notification that catches my eye because it’s different from the others.

@alexanderson.music shared your post.

My stomach leaps into my throat. I never blocked him from this account, I never thought he’d find it. Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter because he wouldn’t know it was me. I had completely forgotten showing it to him the other night.

I tap on the notification, and Alex’s story pops up. It’s one of my most popular posts, one I’d posted about a year ago.

I want a love that comes easily.

One that won’t slip through my fingers if I forget to grasp onto it.

A love that speaks for itself even in the quiet moments.

I want a love that I don’t have to beg for.

In black font beneath my post he’s added two words: my muse.

I tap on his icon, a photo of him with his face hidden behind his hair and a red electric guitar on his lap. I haven’t actually looked at his profile in years, despite the temptation, because I was terrified of seeing something that would break my heart all over again.

He has over half a million followers now, it’s no wonder why my post is getting so much attention. I want to be upset about it, but I’m not. Deep down, all I’ve ever wanted was to share my writing with the world. Not even because I want to be famous or make money from it, but just because I hope to write something that will resonate with other people and maybe make their day a little bit better.

My eyes scan over his bio and the link to his Spotify account, and then land on his latest post. My heart nearly stops beating when I realize it’s a photo of me. You can’t see most of my face as it’s hidden behind my hair, but it’s obviously me, and anyonethat knows me would probably recognize that it is. He must’ve taken the photo when I wasn’t paying attention.

My mouth is curved into a smile, and my eyes are shut tightly, my messy hair falling down in waves that cover half of my face. In the background you can see the gray-green ocean contrasted against the bright blue sky.

I tap the photo to enlarge it, and a massive wave of anxiety hits when I notice the number of likes it has. All of these people are looking atme.I’ve always been fearful of how others might perceive me, and for that reason I’ve never posted a ton of photos of myself on social media. When I tap on the three dots that allow you to read the entire caption, a huge passage of text fills the screen.

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