Page 93 of Terms of Exposure
Part of me wanted him to suffer.
The petty, wounded part.
Good, it whispered.Let him pace. Let him panic. Let him feel what it's like to have someone make choices about your life without asking.
Let him wonder if you're coming back.
I let myself feel it. The vindictive satisfaction. The sharp-edged pleasure of knowing he was suffering.
Then I let it go.
Because holding onto it felt like swallowing poison and hoping he'd be the one to choke.
The rest of me—the part that remembered his face in the streetlight, the vulnerability cracking through his certainty, the way he'd saidI can take itand meant everyword—
That part just wanted to go home.
Home.
I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up with notifications.
Six missed calls.
Three voicemails.
One text:I'm sorry.
My thumb hovered over the voicemail icon.
He's not perfect.
No.
He made a choice that wasn't his to make.
Yes.
And you're going to forgive him anyway.
I stood up. Tossed the bagel and tea and stepped into the early morning heat, already thick despite the hour.
Because beneath all of the truths. All the betrayals. The anger. The fear and the wounded pride—
I trusted him.
Still.
Even now.
Maybe especially now.
The penthouse lobby came into view. I paused at the door, one hand on the glass, my reflection staring back.
You're really doing this.
Yes.
You need him.
