Page 50 of Hate That Blooms
I grip the edge of the shower, knuckles white, my breathing heavy and ragged as the sobs threaten to take over.Why did he have to do this to me?Why did he have to break me when all I asked him to do was change for me? I didn’t want him to be perfect. I just wanted him totry.
I swallow hard—the tears blurring my vision. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing there, letting the water hit me, but I know I can’t stay here forever. I have to keep living, keep pretending that everything is fine, because my sister depends on me. I pretend. I smile. I go through the motions. But inside, I’m breaking apart.
I force myself to turn off the water, but I can’t shake the emptiness gnawing at my insides. Wrapping myself in a towel, I step out of the shower, ignoring my reflection in the mirror. I don’t want to see myself. I don’t want to see the woman who thought she could love him despite everything, despite the bullying, the hurtful words, and the fucking lies I told myself—thinking he loved me.
But when my phone buzzes again from the other room, I know it’s him. Joaquin. I close my eyes for a second, willing myself not to answer.Why now? Why is he doing this to me? Why won’t he just leave me alone?
He got what he wanted. Another quick fuck to show me he’s the one in control.
I can hear his voice, even though he’s miles away. “Please,Reina,” he says in my head. But I know the truth—he’s not sorry. He’s not sorry for the pain he caused me, for the way he ran away and left me lying there, feeling used and worthless. He’s not sorry for making me feel like I was not worth changing for. Not sorry for hurting me again.
I can hear Jazmin’s faint voice in the distance, but it’s muffled, like I’m underwater. I don’t care. I need a moment to breathe, to stop the ache in my chest from suffocating me. I sit down on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone. It vibrates again.
I want to ignore it. I want to pretend he doesn’t matter. But the temptation to pick it up is too strong, and my fingers betray me, unlocking the screen.
A text.
Please talk to me, Gabriela.
Ihatehim for making me love him.
Ihatehim for making me care.
I throw the phone onto the bed again, harder this time. It bounces off the comforter and falls to the floor with a soft thud. My chest tightens, and the tears finally fall freely, pooling in my lap. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and stand, pacing the room, the anger slowly building up.
Why am I still crying over him?After everything, why am I still weak for him? He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve me.
But the part of me that still loves him, the one that’s so fucking broken, keeps hoping. Keeps wishing he would justseeme. Really see me and realize how much I’ve given. How much I would’ve given for him to just be there. To be honest about his feelings. To be a man.
But instead, I get nothing. I get anger. I get silence when I need him most.
And I’m left here, drowning in it all, questioning everything.
I hear Jazmin’s footsteps now, louder, closer. My heart races in my chest, my breath shallow. I wipe the tears from my face, trying to pull myself together before she comes in. I don’t want anyone to see this—see me like this.
I hear her knock softly on the door before she calls out, "Are you okay?" Her voice is gentle, but I can hear the concern there. She doesn’t know what just happened. She doesn’t know the pain that Joaquin has caused or the way he’s slowly destroyed me, piece by piece.
Do I tell her? Do I let her in on this?
I sit on the edge of the bed again, still wrapped in the towel, staring at the phone on the floor.
I force a smile, and I hope it’s convincing enough. "Yeah. Just needed a minute."
Jazmin doesn’t push, but I hear her walk away, the quiet click of the door closing behind her.
I feel the weight of the silence fill the room.
I can’t stop crying.
* * *
The sound of pounding on the front door startles me awake. I bolt upright and look at the alarm clock on my nightstand—the red numbers flash “4:00.”
“What the fuck!” I jump out of bed and run down the hall, praying that Mireya is still sleeping. Peering through the peephole, I let out a sigh.“Puta madre.”
There he is. Joaquin. Of course, it’s him. Who else would it be at this hour, banging like a maniac at my door? I press my forehead against the cool wood of the door and close my eyes, taking a deep breath.
Why now?
