That night, when he was drunk and mumbled, *"Let's be together, my love..."* I had thought he was speaking to me. But the tone, the inflection—he had been projecting *her* onto me the entire time.
For five years, he hadn't called me by a pet name. Not once.
It turned out I had been the fool all along.
A bitter, self-deprecating smile twisted my lips. I typed two words:
*Let's break up.*
I sent it. Then I deleted the account permanently.
Almost immediately, my phone began to vibrate.
An unfamiliar number. He was calling. Since I had blocked his main number, he was using another line.
I didn't answer.
The phone buzzed again. And again. Text messages flooded in, frantic and disjointed.
*"Audrey Henson, who gave you permission to break up?"*
*"Where are you? I'm coming to find you."*
*"Why aren't you replying? Are you throwing a tantrum?"*
*"Just wait for me at home, obediently. I can explain everything!"*
*"...Why did your boss say you're going abroad? Are you at the airport?"*
*"Audrey, don't move. Wait for me. Please, just wait a little longer—I'm almost there."*
I took a deep breath, my finger hovering over the screen.
*Block.*