Page 83 of Their Arrangement

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Then added:

I’m in her necklace. You said it didn’t belong on me.

So I’m selling it tonight.

You can stop me. Or not.

Nothing.

Not even a typing bubble.

I set the phone down.

And let the ache pool in my belly.

I slid out of the booth. My thighs peeled from the vinyl. My knees buckled for half a second before I straightened. I walked slow. Careful. Like someone might be watching. Like someone already was.

The bathroom was worse than the bar. It smelled like old soap and something that hadn’t been clean in years. I locked the door behind me even though the lock didn’t catch. Pressed both hands to the sink. Looked in the mirror.

Smeared lipstick.

Mascara beneath one eye.

Necklace tight around my throat.

I looked like I’d already fucked someone and tried to wash the guilt off after.

I didn’t cry.

I took a photo.

Didn’t send it.

Typed instead:

I look like your mistake.

Then I left the bathroom.

Back to the bar.

The music had dulled—less sound, more pulse. Nothing but the thump of bass fading beneath thethrumof my bloodstream.

I motioned for the bartender. Ordered something. Let the drink sit there when it came. The ice cubes bobbed. I didn’t care. I grabbed the glass and swallowed. Let it burn. Let it punish.

I didn’t mean to reach for the phone again. But I did.Because the ache didn’t settle—it multiplied. Because the silence felt like permission.

I tried again.

The font blurred. I blinked. Swallowed. Typed again.

I want to forget you.

I want to forget what it felt like to want you to break me.

I hit send this time. Each message was a match. Each word lit another corner of me on fire. I stared at the screen, pulse stuttering behind my teeth.

The messages stacked like sins. No read receipt. No reply.

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