Page 117 of F*ckboys

My fingers hover over a couple of dating apps in a futile attempt at connection. But betrayal simmers beneath the surface. It doesn't feel right to activate my profile and start the dance of swiping left and right on women I don't care about and never will. The ghost of her lingers, a barrier I can't bring myself to cross. Fallon is the only person I ever want to swipe right on again. To do anything else would be a lie. An empty act.

The walls close in around me, suffocating in their emptiness. I'm drowning in the silence. In the memories. In the love I can't escape.

I sit on the edge of the bed we once shared, head in hands. It's been weeks and despite many loads of laundry, the faint scent of her perfume clings to the walls, a cruel reminder of the intimacy we've lost.

And in the silence, I ache for her.

Crave her.

Need her.

The way I always will.

I lose myself online instead, navigating to a couple of my favorite sites where anonymity is a comfort. But her face finds me even here, in the pornographic images and scenes meant to distract, to numb. Her eyes stare back at me in every actress, reflected in moments we once shared.

There is no escape. Not here. Not anywhere.

My heart races and breaks all at once, torn between the memory of her touch and the knowledge I may never feel itagain. I cling to the fading scent of her on my skin, the softness of her voice in my ear, the warmth of her in my arms.

And I wonder if I'll ever be free of this. Of her.

If I even want to be.

Because the truth is, she owns me. Heart, body, and soul. She always has. For god's sake, I can't even jerk off to porn without her image pervading my senses.

Instead of relieving myself, I draft messages I'll never send, pouring my heart out to her in the darkness. I tell her I'm sorry. That I miss her. That I'm lost without her. That she's the best and worst thing that's ever happened to me.

The words remain unsent. Lingering in the silence that stretches between us. A reminder of all that will never be.

In the end, she's left me with nothing but the ache of her absence. An emptiness that can't be filled. A heartbreak with no end in sight.

I'm haunted by the ghost of her. Shackled to the memory of us. And I wonder if this is what love does to you—if it leaves you with nothing at all.

I wake with her name on my lips, the fading whisper of a dream already slipping through my fingers. For a moment, I can almost feel the warmth of her in my arms again. Taste the softness of her kiss. Hear the sound of her laughter, bright and carefree in my ear.

And then I open my eyes.

The room is empty. Silent. Cold.

Reality crashes over me, harsh and unforgiving. She's gone. She left me. And she's never coming back.

I rise and shuffle to the kitchen, craving the burn of whiskey down my throat. Needing anything to dull the ache inside. Myphone chimes with a message, and for a fleeting second, hope flares.

But it's not her. Of course it's not. It's just my assistant reminding me about a presentation that needs to be finalized by the end of the week.

I pour a drink with shaking hands, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass. I welcome the sting as it slides down my throat, igniting a fire in my chest.

Anything to feel something other than this.

Other than the broken, gaping hole where my heart used to be.

But the whiskey does nothing to dull the pain. If anything, it amplifies the memory of Fallon, as if her ghost has come to haunt me. I see her face everywhere I look. Hear her voice in the silence. Feel the ghost of her touch in the empty spaces between us.

She's always there. And she's always out of reach.

I stand at the window, watching the city below. A surge of anger rises, sharp and sudden, clawing at my insides. I hurl my glass at the wall, shards of glass raining down as the amber liquid slides to the floor, puddling on my luxe Persian rug.

The flare of rage is fleeting. In its wake comes a surge of remorse, and I'm left with only the ruin I've made.

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