“ You deserve better, so don’t you dare settle for less. ”
---
— Joel —
I hurt her.
Again.
Just like I always do.
I should have stopped reading when I saw her name on the byline of that magazine. I should have walked away, knowing what her words would do to me. But I didn’t. I stayed, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, knowing full well it would burn me alive.
Her poem wasn’t just words on paper. It was raw, real, and hauntingly beautiful. Every line carried the weight of her pain and the clarity of her healing. It cut through me, each word sharper than the last.
It’s been three years—three long, tumultuous years—and I haven’t stopped following her. Watching her life unfold from afar has become my way of wading through the guilt that clings to me like a second skin. I wish I could say it has lessened with time, but the truth is, it hasn’t.
She’s thriving now, chasing her dreams with the determination I always knew she had. She’s achieved so much in these three years. While I’m proud of her, it’s a pride that’s laced with bitterness—because I wasn’t there to see it, to help her, to cheer her on.
I let her go.
And it broke me.
“ Letting go felt like leaving a 
piece of myself behind—
a piece I’ve never been able
to reclaim. ”
Knowing I had once been a part of her world only makes her words sting more.
This poem, though—it’s different.
It’s vulnerable, unfiltered, and so very real.
“ He mocked my feelings, ” she wrote,
“ Claimed they weren’t enough to shoulder his demons. ”
I gripped the magazine tighter, my vision blurring as a memory surfaced, dragging me back into the shadows of my past.
---
Her voice was sharp, her tone mocking.
“No!” I shouted, my voice trembling as she advanced toward me again.
Her eyes burned with fury, and her lips curled into a sneer.
“Manwhore,” she spat, the vile nickname echoing in the room.
“I’m done,” I said, my voice cracking. “I don’t consent to this anymore!”
She froze, her face contorting with rage.
“You know what happens if you say no to me,” she said, her voice low and menacing.
“I know.” My heart pounded in my chest, but I stood my ground. “Seven years in prison. My reputation ruined. My name dragged through the mud. I know the price of defying you. But if that’s what it takes to be free, I’ll pay it.”
For a moment, I thought I had won. I thought she’d finally accepted defeat.
But I was wrong. So very wrong.
What followed was a whirlwind of threats, manipulation, and violence. Her attempts to blackmail me escalated until, at last, the truth unraveled.
She was sent to a mental institution after it was discovered that she’d been hiding a severe disorder. But even then, the damage was done.
---
I’ll never forget the day I found her journal. The pages were filled with beautifully written poems, their delicate strokes masking the horrors they described.
“ I ended him today,
And it felt like freedom.
I watched him gasp,
Each breath slipping
Through my grasp.
It felt right.
Stronger than the numbness
That has lived inside me for years.
I ended him today—
The one who whispered
Forever, only to
Shatter it with deceit.
I ended him today—
The one who chose
Youth over loyalty,
Fantasy over reality.
I ended him today—
The one who saw my scars,
My flaws,
And called them unworthy.
I ended him today,
And for a moment,
It felt good.
Too good. ”
I turned the page and froze. There it was—a photo of me as a child, barely five years old, wearing my sports uniform. Next to it was another poem, written with the same precision but far more sinister.
“ I got him today,
My little Manwhore.
Too young now,
But he’ll grow.
I’ll rear him,
Then devour him.
It’ll be fun. ”
She had planned it all. From the very beginning.
I was never more than a pawn in her twisted game.
---
It’s been years since those events, yet the memories haunt me like ghosts that refuse to be laid to rest.
“Why me?” I had once demanded, desperate for answers.
“Because it had to be you,” she’d said, her eyes cold and unfeeling.
Her words echo in my mind even now, as I stare at Cecile’s poem in the magazine.
She looks radiant in her photo—full of life, hope, and purpose. Her words, though painful, reveal a lady who has walked through fire and emerged unscathed.
“How did you do it, Cecile?” I whisper to the image. “How did you find freedom when I’m still trapped in my past?”
Her poem feels like a mirror, reflecting all the ways I’ve failed—not just her, but myself. She’s healed. She’s grown. And I’m still here, stuck in the shadows, unable to move forward.
“ How come you’ve gone through fire and come out untainted? How are you in a better place than I am, Cecile? How? ”
The answer comes to me like a whisper, a voice from the past.
Jemmy’s voice.
“ I believe in God… in Jesus. He’s my best friend. ”
Could it be? Could faith have been her anchor?
I stare at the magazine again, the tears falling freely now. Her journey, her words—they’re not just a testament to her strength but a challenge to me.
Can I find the same freedom she has? Can I retrace my steps and make things right?
“Cecile,” I whisper, my voice trembling, “Can I have your heart once again?”
But even as I say it, I know the answer isn’t hers to give. It’s mine to find.
---
A/N: That was intense! Let me know your thoughts. Thankies:⁠-⁠).