Page 27 of American Beauty

I try again. Voicemail.

Again. Voicemail.

Again.

A strangled sound claws its way up my throat. No. No, no, no. This isn’t happening. Alex wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t end things like this.

A violent twist rips through my stomach as panic takes hold, my breathing shallow and erratic. There has to be an explanation. There has to be. Nothing about this is right.

I yank open my laptop and type with shaking hands.What does it mean when calls go straight to voicemail?

The screen fills with answers I don’t want: one ring, voicemail, blocked.

Blocked?

The word echoes like a gunshot.

A sharp, splintering pain cracks through my ribs, radiating outward like wildfire. Alex blocked me. He ended things and cut me off. Erased me.

I choke on a sob, pressing a hand to my mouth as the weight of it crushes me. Only an hour ago, I was planning my return to Sydney. Planning a future with him.

And now? He ended it without even knowing I was on my way back to him.

Nausea churns in my gut. I barely make it to the bathroom before my stomach wretches, heaving up stomach contents but also everything I am, everything I feel.

I don’t remember how I end up on the bathroom floor. One moment, I’m staring at my laptop screen, the wordblockedsearing into my brain like a flashing neon sign, and the next, I’m crumpled on my knees with my body folded in on itself as if that might protect me from the pain.

This can’t be happening. It can’t be real.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to drag in a breath, but nothing about it helps. The panic keeps pressing into me—tight around my ribs, sharp against my lungs. My hands tremble as I fumble for my phone again.

There’s nothing. No warning. No shift. No buildup I missed.

Just days of thread after thread—I miss you. I love you. I can’t wait to hold you again.His voice in written form, a digital echo of promises and plans. Of forever.

And then—this.

It’s over.

Don’t call or text me again.

The words sit there, taunting me.

Cold. Final.

This doesn’t sound like the man who looked at me like I hung the moon. The man who said he wanted everything with me. This isn’t him. It can’t be.

I call him again. Voicemail.

Again. Voicemail.

Again. Again.

Still voicemail.

A broken sob tears from my throat, and I drop my head to my knees, phone still clutched in my shaking hand. Desperation claws at my chest as I open my messages again and type.

Alex. Please tell me this is a mistake. Please call me. Please.

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