I should have left a long time ago.
Not because of one fight, or one missed birthday, or the time he forgot my name in front of his friends and laughed it off like I was being "too sensitive." I should have left because I started saying sorry for simply needing love.
And tonight, I stopped.
The hallway outside Logan's apartment smelled like cheap weed and microwave noodles. I stood there, clutching the handle of a plain brown bag stuffed with pieces of a relationship I once believed would last. My fingers were numb, and not from the cold. From the weight of pretending.
I knocked twice.
When the door opened, there he was. Logan Andrews. My boyfriend of two years. Shirtless, lazy-eyed, and looking mildly inconvenienced, like I'd interrupted something more important—like the game paused on the TV behind him.
"You didn't say you were coming over," he muttered, rubbing his eyes like he couldn't be bothered.
"You didn't answer my text," I replied. "So I thought I'd save you the trouble."
He leaned against the doorframe. "Trouble of what?"
"Of ignoring me in person."
A beat passed. He didn't flinch. Didn't apologize. Just crossed his arms and sighed like I was the problem again. "Kayla, not this again. You know I've just been busy lately."
"You were online three minutes ago."
He looked away. "I needed space."
I held up the bag. "Here's all the space you need. Your hoodie, your bracelet, and the stupid photo strip from the fair."
His jaw tensed. "You're seriously doing this?"
"I'm seriously done doing this," I snapped. "I can't keep loving someone who makes me feel like an obligation."
He stepped forward. "Kayla, come on. You're being dramatic. We just hit a rough patch."
"You stopped texting me goodnight two months ago. You canceled my birthday dinner for a 'guys' thing.' You act like my feelings are an inconvenience—"
"They are when you act like this!" he snapped.
I flinched.
And that was it. The final blow. The last thread I'd been holding onto broke, quietly and completely.
I didn't cry. Not this time. I just let the silence settle.
"You don't have to worry about my feelings anymore," I said, my voice steady. "I'm done handing them to someone who keeps dropping them."
He didn't chase me. Of course he didn't. He stood there with his arms crossed and pride in his throat while I turned around and walked down that hallway like it was a runway leading to my rebirth.
I cried in my car.
Not because I wanted him back. But because I hated that I had to get used to loving myself alone.
The city lights blurred through my windshield as I parked in front of my tiny apartment. I sat there for a while, face buried in my coat, letting the kind of sobs out that no one ever wants to admit to. The kind you feel in your bones. Grief not just for the relationship, but for the girl who tolerated it for so long.
Her name was Kayla Morgan. Twenty-three. Marketing assistant. Lover of books, tea, rainy days, and guys who couldn't care less. Or at least, that's who she used to be.
Not anymore.
Three hours and a hot shower later, I stood in front of the mirror and didn't recognize myself. Eyes red. Lips trembling. But behind that sadness, there was something else — something I hadn't felt in months.
Clarity.
I opened my laptop, fingers shaking, and Googled:
"How to get over someone who doesn't love you back."
There were a million results. But the one that caught my eye wasn't a list of steps — it was a quote.
"One day, you'll thank him for letting you go. Because you'll shine so bright, he won't be able to look at you without sunglasses."
I closed the browser and whispered to my reflection: "Challenge accepted."
The next morning, I threw out the mascara that always ran when I cried, the texts I never deleted, and the playlist I made for our anniversary. I blocked him on everything. Not out of spite — out of survival.
Then I did something bold: I booked a consultation with a personal trainer. Joined a local book club. Applied for a marketing job I was too scared to try for before. And I bought a new dress — a deep emerald green that hugged every curve he told me to hide.
It wasn't about becoming someone new. It was about remembering who I was before he made me forget.
And for the first time in a long time…
I didn't feel like breaking.
I felt like blooming.