Page 92 of Hymns of the Broken
I know what it means to be used and discarded, to be just a momentary high for someone until they find something shinier.
So what is this?
Some twisted rivalry between two guys who love to fight? Is it about ego? Power? Another stage to perform on?
My chesttightens.
What if I’m just caught in the middle of some game I don’t understand?
Jasper shifts behind me, like he can feel the change in my breathing. His fingers flex slightly against my stomach, and then his voice breaks the silence, rough from sleep.
“You’re thinking too hard again, baby.”
“Just tired,” I whisper, though it sounds like a lie even to me.
Jasper doesn’t let it slide.
He props himself up on one elbow, his hand brushing my hair back as he stares down at me, unreadable eyes scanning every inch of my face.
“Tell me what’s in that pretty head of yours,” he murmurs. “Before I pull it out of you the hard way.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
Because part of me wants him to.
But another part—the quiet, scared part that never believes good things last—doesn’t know how to speak the words out loud.
I blink up at him, and the ache in my chest pulses harder.
Am I allowed to ask?
Am I allowed to wantbothof them without losing myself in the process?
Without being destroyed
“I think…” I swallow, staring down at the sheet bunched in my fists. “I think part of me doesn’t know how to believe it.”
Jasper doesn’t say anything; he waits patiently, so I force myself to keep talking.
“I’ve spent most of my life feeling like the background noise in someone else’s story. Too much for the people who were supposed to love me, and never enough for anyone else to stay. I’ve been a backup plan. A second choice. The easy one to leave.”
My voice shakes, but I don’t stop.
“And now you… and Riot… both of you want me? At the same time? It doesn’t feelreal. It feels like the universe is setting me up for a punchline I haven’t heard yet.”
I look athim, chest aching.
“I guess I’m just waiting for it to fall apart.”
JASPER
She doesn’t cry. She says it like she’s already accepted it—like the idea of being disposable is tattooed somewhere beneath her skin, stitched into the way she breathes.
And fuck, if that doesn’t gut me.
The light’s soft—just the faint amber from the hallway, painting shadows across her face. I push up on one elbow, reach out,andmove her hair off her face, just so I can touch her. Her skin’s warm, softer than I deserve.
“You’re not a punchline,” I tell her. “And this isn’t some twisted joke.”
