🔴 HE SAID, “SHE REMINDS ME OF YOU,” WHILE STARING AT A WOMAN ON TV
I choked on my wine and quickly excused myself, walking towards the balcony for some air.
The humid night air felt heavy on my skin, thick with the smell of jasmine from Mrs. Rodriguez’s garden. I could still hear the television, his easy laugh bouncing through the open doorway. Why would he say that?
He knows I’ve been insecure since the accident, the scar throbbing like a second heartbeat whenever I see myself in the mirror. “You’re still beautiful, Maya,” he always says, but it rings hollow now, like a rehearsed line.
Suddenly the screen door creaked open, and he stood there, the light casting strange shadows on his face, and his hand felt cold as he touched my arm, “What’s wrong, baby?”
👇 Full story continued in the comments…
I turned, trying to school my features into a mask of indifference. “Just… a little overwhelmed, I guess.” I gestured vaguely at the city lights twinkling in the distance. It felt like a lie, a flimsy shield against the truth that I was slowly, painfully uncovering.
He tilted his head, studying me with those familiar, hazel eyes. “You know I didn’t mean anything by it, right? It was just… a compliment. She’s got that… that effortless grace, you know?”
Effortless. The word, a blade, twisted in my gut. Grace was something I felt I’d lost the day everything had shattered. I forced a smile, a tight curve of my lips. “Of course. Don’t worry about it.”
He pulled me close, his arms a familiar comfort. He smelled of sandalwood and the faintest trace of the expensive cologne I’d bought him for his birthday. “I love you, Maya,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against my ear.
“I love you too,” I replied, the words feeling alien on my tongue. A question mark hung heavy in the air between us, a silent plea. Did he truly mean it? Or was it just a habit, a reflex borne out of years spent together?
He kissed me then, a tender kiss that should have soothed the ache in my chest, but instead, it deepened it. I pulled away, needing to breathe. He frowned, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
“I’m going to bed,” I said, turning and heading back inside, leaving him standing there, silhouetted against the city’s glow.
Later, as I lay in bed, the apartment silent, the TV now a faint hum, I picked up my phone and scrolled through my photos. I found a picture of us, taken a year before the accident. We were laughing, faces bright with a joy that felt distant now. I traced the curve of my untouched face with my finger. Then, I opened a private folder, the password only I knew. Inside were dozens of screenshots, all of a woman, the same woman on the TV, smiling, posing, living a life that, until recently, I had.
I closed my eyes, a single tear tracing a path down my cheek. The scar on my face throbbed, a constant reminder of the past and a fear for the future. I had to know the truth.
The next morning, I told him I was going to visit my mother, and I had to stay for a week.
I rented a car, and I drove. I drove for two days, until I was in front of an elegant house, and I knocked at the door. When it opened, the woman who stared back was the woman from the TV. And the man behind her, startled, was my boyfriend.
“Maya,” he whispered, his face paling.
The woman smiled, a knowing smile. “You should come in, you must be exhausted.”
I ignored her, my gaze locked on my boyfriend’s face. “Tell me,” I whispered. “Tell me everything.”
He ran his hand through his hair, defeated. “I… I didn’t want to hurt you.”
The woman touched his arm and looked at him. “He loves you,” she said.
I stepped back, the world tilting. He loved me? Or did he love the idea of me, the ghost of what we once were?
That’s when I realized the truth I’d been avoiding. I loved him too, but the love was a shadow, a remnant of what had once been.
“Then leave,” I said, my voice steady. “Leave, and find your happiness, even if it’s not with me.”
He didn’t argue, but he looked at me with that same pain he felt during the accident. I walked away.