Disgust and rage surged through me. I shoved him away and fell to my knees, retching into the trash can.
Meanwhile, Alfie stumbled back, startled. He hesitated for a moment, then took a step forward—but soon stopped with a distaste in his face.
“I’ll get you some water,” he muttered before turning and walking off.
I threw up until there was nothing left inside me, gripping the edge of the trash can for support.
When I finally stood up, I watched his retreating figure—his hurried steps, his obvious need to get away from me—and I laughed bitterly.
He used to be different.
One year, at a company New Year’s party, I got drunk. He stayed up all night taking care of me, cleaning up after me without a single complaint.
Back then, he cared. Back then, he loved me.
Now, he didn’t. And it couldn’t be more obvious.
I closed my eyes, willing those painful memories away.
From now on, no matter what Alfie did, it wouldn’t matter to me anymore.
I walked straight to my vanity and opened a small box. Inside were two small dolls, their fabric scorched and ruined by fire.