When will I finally learn that life isn’t a fairytale? That men don’t save you—they just leave you needing to be saved from them.
“None of your business,” I snap, yanking on my jacket, bracing for the cold bite of the outside world.
“You can’t go out there, Nell. It’s not safe.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Routine, remember? The oneyouset up. Or are you going to tell me that doesn’t matter anymore either?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, jaw tight, biting back whatever excuse he thinks might fix this.
But there’s nothing left to say.
He has no right to stop me. And he certainly has no ground to stand on.
I just need to get out. It’s suffocating in here; I need space to breathe. To think. Because clearly, staying here isn’t an option anymore. He knows I’m right—routine is everything.
But what he doesn’t know is that I’m already planning to break it.
Just a small detour on the way home.
I need a drink—a real one. In a real bar. Surrounded by people who don’t know my name or my story.
And I know just the place.
The bar Darcy and I used to haunt, back when life felt a little less like a trap and a little more like something we could outrun.
Maybe I’ll find comfort at the bottom of a glass. Or maybe I’ll just find silence. Either way, I’ll take it.
He’s still standing there, looming with that ridiculously sculpted chest like he’s carved from stone. But I’m not letting him get to me today.
His charm won’t work. Not now. Not when I’ve shut everything down and buried myself so deep inside, I’m not sure I’ll ever claw my way back out.
Life sucks.
This whole twisted, broken situation sucks.
And right now, I just want to disappear into something that doesn’t ask anything of me.
The cold bites at my cheeks as I step outside, but I welcome it. It’s honest. Unlike everything else right now.
I make a brief stop at the gym—not to work out, not really. I don’t touch a single machine. Just swipe in, linger long enough to tick the box, and leave.
The shop’s the same. I wander the aisles like I’m searching for something specific, eyes scanning shelves I don’t really see. It’s all just noise—bright lights, pointless choices, the illusion of normalcy.
Then I slip out, unnoticed, and head toward the only place I’ve actually meant to go all along.
The bar.
By the time I reach the bar, the sky’s bruised with twilight and the neon sign above the door flickers like it’s trying to decide whether to give up. Fitting.
Inside, it’s dim and familiar. The low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the soft thud of boots on worn floorboards. It smells like spilled beer and old wood—nostalgia and regret in equal measure.
I slide onto a stool at the far end of the bar, the one Darcy always claimed because it had the best view of the door. “So we can see trouble coming,” she used to say with a wink.
I order something strong and uncomplicated. No frills, no garnish. Just burn.
The first sip hits hard. Good.
I let the noise wash over me, tuning out the world, letting the alcohol dull the frayed edges of everything Cameron said—and didn’t say.
