Three Months Later . . .

I woke up that morning like any other, peeling my eyelids apart, and instantly felt the suffocating sensation; Like someone was standing on top of my chest with iron boots, restricting my ability to breathe. I rubbed away the dried tear marks on my cheeks and under my eyes, just like I had done for the past three months. You could say it had become a routine by now. How sick was that?

I rolled over like every other morning and felt the pounding ache in my chest the moment I stretched my hands to the other side of the bed.

Empty.

How fucking stupid. He had cheated on me and yet three months later, I still dreamt about him every night and woke up hoping he was lying next to me. Each morning I woke up and didn't feel his possessive arm wrapped around my waist, or the warmth of his body spooning mine, was another day in hell. I had begun missing everything about him after the first day we—I broke it up. Everything.

I missed the way he always smirked mischievously whenever he was scheming something that surely would cook my shit. I missed the way his eyes deepened whenever he was studying me. That intense I-can't-fucking-work-you-out-but-I'll-still-happily-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-sitting-here-staring-at-you-trying-to-just-get-a-glimpse-inside-you-because-I-love-you-so-damn-much look. His teal blue eyes always had me breathless. They recorded the world and stored everything inside that brilliant head of his, and for the most parts, he hated that. But when he was looking at me, it was like he never wanted to blink because he didn't want to miss recording one moment with me. Not even a second.

I missed him so fucking much. I even missed his fucking horrible cooking, it was that bad. The time he had tried frying eggs for me and the stench had been so pungent, I'd nearly thrown up, I missed that. And you know why?

Because even though he knew how fucking horrible he was at cooking, he still got up early before me, looked for a cookbook he could understand, and then tried to serve me breakfast in bed, just because he wanted to watch me eat, wanted to put something in my belly. He probably would've poisoned the both of us, but I didn't fucking care. Because that was Alex; So fucking considerate and caring towards everyone he loved. Not just towards me, but his sisters, too.

He had been more of a dad to them than a brother. He was the one who got them up in the mornings and sent them off to school. He made them sandwiches (which was about the only thing he knew how to make) for their lunches, and he helped them with their homework. I remember one time when we were younger, I caught him YouTubing how to braid hair in different techniques, just so he could send them off to school looking pretty and dolled up. He might deny loving his little broken family to anyone that asked him bluntly, but he did; He loved them to pieces and there was nothing he wouldn't do to take care of them. Even if it meant leaving and never coming back.

I curled myself up on the bed and forced the tears pressing in my eyes to roll back. They didn't. A tear dropped from the corner of my eye and landed on my pillow.

God, the jerk. Why did he have to cheat? Why did he have to ruin everything in just one night? Why did I leave him? Could I have stopped it? Would we still be together today if I hadn't left him drunk and vulnerable? Would he still have taken some girl home with him, spread her legs and given her his mind-blowing loving?

My mind wandered to the imagines that probably hurt the most, the ones I had been trying to stuff down and refuse to picture. It was the imaginary images of him and some faceless blonde bimbo who was spread eagle on the bed below him, purring and meowing from all the sweet things he was doing to her. Sometimes she was on top of him, riding him like a fucking bronco, whipping her platinum blonde hair while her tits bounced in his face. I didn't know why she was blonde in my mind, they just always were. I was blonde myself, Alex obviously had a type. I hated how easily I had let myself fall under his spell like any other dumb blonde out there. I'd held out for eight years, but in the end, what did it matter? He had gotten me into his bed as well, fucked me properly and then cheated like I was just anyone of his skanks.

But you know what the sickest part was? It was that I had felt like I hadn't been good enough. Funny thing was, I knew I had meant more to him than she did... and yet she still got what I didn't; A chance with him when he was most vulnerable.

The whole thing had changed me. I didn't know who I was today. Without Alex, I just seemed so goddamn pointless, which was stupid. I didn't belong anywhere but with him, and the pathetic truth was probably the reason why I had moved away.

It had been the only thing I could think of, after he... disappeared. I needed to disappear, too. I needed a fresh start somewhere else, away from all the people I knew, so I had passed on Miles's offer about moving into his luxurious condo after high school, and instead sought my own ways. I had some money saved up (I was blessed to have a dad who was a banker, so he had helped me save up the proper way) and I'd used that money to find myself an apartment in a small town just outside Canberra.

Now, nearly three months later, I had almost finished unpacking. I hadn't been up for it, I'd mainly just been walking around like an empty shell, feeling hollow. Life went on without Alexander, and even though I didn't know where he was today, I hoped he was doing somewhat okay.

Again, my heart clenched, just thinking about what drug he was currently addicted to.

Don't. Just don't think about it, I willed myself to think. Just get out of bed, take a shower, maybe go for a walk.

The walk was maybe a bit optimistic, but a shower I could do with. I got up, picked out a nice summery dress that perhaps was a tad too cold for the changing seasons in Australia, but I didn't care. It was comfy and pretty at the same time, and that in my world was the best combination ever.

So after a long steam in the shower, I lotioned up, gave my hair a quick blow-dry, added the oils I always did, and then I slipped on the dress. I continued my pointless morning ritual, aired out my bedroom, made my bed. I ate breakfast and then brushed my teeth. I then sat down in my room with the last box of unpacked things and begun sifting through it. It was mostly just decorative bits and bobs, things that had no other use than to look pretty.

I suddenly paused when I noticed a little framed picture which was pressed up the edge of the box, concealing its photograph. But it didn't matter. I knew what it showed. It was a picture of me and Alex at the park when we were little. My mom had snapped the photo, and I had to admit, it was the best childhood photo she had taken – hence the reason I had framed it. But after I broke things off with Alex and moved out, I thought I had left every piece of furniture that reminded me of him at home. My mom had probably packed this one for me, maybe because she didn't want me to completely shut him out of my life, but still remember the good times.

Like he had wanted me to.

I'd told my parents everything about me and Alex after the split, how we had become more than friends over the past few weeks. They had been happy for me and hadn't been surprised at all. Damn parents who could see right through you. After I told them why we broke up, they were supportive and understanding and even helped me search for my own place. Now I just got a call every other day from my mother who was checking up on me to see if I was okay, still breathing. I always lied and told her I was doing fine.

I carefully picked up the photograph from the box and slowly looked at it. My heart then throbbed and my eyes started to water again.

It was such a goofy photo. We were about eleven, and me and Alex had been making wet sand pies in the sandbox. Alex had been playing the customer and he was suppose to taste to pie, aka the sand, and like the good playmate that he was, he had. What he didn't know – what neither of us did – was that a stray cat had left a little surprise in the sand and Alex was about to discover that the nasty way.

The picture was snapped right as Alex had been taking a bite of the pie, but then tasting the cat-poop, he had spat it all out again and lolled his tongue out of his mouth with the most hilarious, disgusted grimace on his face. I had cracked up, laughing my ass off, so now the picture showed the two of us sitting there in the sandbox; Alex spitting out cat-poop and me laughing hysterically. I was such a good friend.

I felt a tear roll down my cheek as I looked at the young, innocent Alexander, before I quickly put the photo back in the box and wiped my eyes dry, thanking the Lord I had given up on wearing mascara a long time ago. These days all I did was cry, and removing waterproof mascara was always a bitch, so I'd just stopped wearing makeup all together. What was the point, anyway? There was nobody I wanted to look good for anymore. Nobody that really mattered, anyway.

I unpacked the rest of the box, humming a soft tune to myself as I worked, when someone suddenly knocked on the door. My heart jumped up in my throat like it always did, but it immediately sunk back down again after I took a deep breath.

It was an old reflex, thinking Alex was on the other side of the door whenever someone knocked. Of course I knew by now that that wasn't the case, and since I'd ordered a package online the other day, I knew it was just the postman coming to deliver it.

Setting down the bookend I had been holding, I walked up the door, forced a smile to my lips to look somewhat not-depressed, and then swung the door open to greet the postman.

Only it wasn't the postman.

"Hey, beautiful. Missed me?"

• • •

What a shocker. Not.