I don't know if it's because I took him back when I knew I shouldn't, or if it's the fact that I actually saw it with my own two eyes, but this time is entirely different. I'm not angry, at least not anymore. In fact, I don't feel anything. Not disbelief, or unspeakable rage or even the guilt that festered last night. I don't even feel numb. I just am. Heartbroken, that is.

But it isn't a feeling. It's simply a state. Bleak and utterly depressing. Endless too.

Last time it split me whole and swallowed me in a seamless gulp, throwing me into the belly of the beast until I stabbed my way out and was myself again. It was all-encompassing, gut-wrenching, but it came to an end. It was also tempered by all sorts of hatred and disgust, and anger towards Spencer.

But this time, there's nothing. Just the beast's belly and the sense that I'll be trapped forever

It'll get better, things always do, but something about it feels permanent—like an unwanted tattoo in dark ink, the letters curled and fairytale-like, spelling out Spencer's name in bold strokes.

The one thing that hasn't change is Spencer's tactics. But then you can trust him to be frustratingly consistent—in cheating, lying, selfishness. The point is, he'll never change. At least not for me.

Thankfully, Henry's still MIA, and my parents have left for work, saving me from having to offer a half-truth that would, eventually, have to give way to the whole embarrassing thing.

I roll off the sofa, blanket in tow, and shuffle towards the front door, flinging it open to reveal Spencer's red-rimmed eyes. He's holding a wilting bouquet of lilies scarily similar to the ones his mum uses to decorate their vestibule. He shoves them into my hands before I can refuse them and is presumptuous enough to try and come in.

"You can stay out there," I say, my left hand tightening around the doorknob as my right clings to the blanket.

He nods glumly and takes a step back. "I'm sorry," he says once he's a reasonable distance from the house.

"I'm sure you ar—"

"I don't know why I keep doing this. These girls have nothing on you. You're the one I want, always."

"But—"

"I'll never do it again. I swear on my mother's life."

He stops, eyes wide, unblinking, and takes a step forwards.

"Are you going to let me speak now?" I ask, my hand reaching for the brass knob all over again. He nods and stumbles back onto the cobbled path, his eyes seeming to glisten with unshed tears.

"I appreciate your apology," I say, my voice devoid of any emotion. "But I wouldn't swear on your mother's life if I were you."

"It's just—"

"It's my turn to speak."

He swallows and takes another step back. It's smart on his part. The first smart thing he's done all week.

"This," I say, gesturing between us with the depressing lilies, "is never going to happen. Ever again. We're finished, Spence. I mean it this time."

"But."

I slam the door shut, opening it only to chuck the lilies at him, and then the frame shudders again from the sheer force of the blow.

Not even a minute later, there's a knock. I'm half tempted to ignore it, to return to the sofa and my mindless channel surfing, but a rhythmic tap follows soon after, and I know that it's not Spencer waiting for me on the other side.

Jess is in the same clothes from last night. Her hair is dishevelled at best, a pigeons nest at worst, and a faint bruise runs along her collar bone while another hides beneath her ear lobe. Yet, despite the state of her, she's the furthest thing from sheepish. If anything, she looks more distraught.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she hisses as she barrels past, her belongings spilling out of her arms.

"I didn't want to ruin your evening." I pick up a few of her things and follow as she heads for my room.

"You could never ruin my night. You're my best friend. I need to be there for you."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"It's fine. Isaac was with me."

"I know, which is worse. He seems to always drive you back to Spencer." She drops her things besides my door and launches herself into my bed. "What the fuck was he doing here, by the way?"

"Begging."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Did it work?"

"His begging?"

She nods, her curls splaying out across my pink silk pillow.

"No," I laugh. "It most definitely did not work."

She pumps her fist into the air and squeals. It's a little too loud for her hungover ears, mine too, but where I simply weather the storm, she winces and burrows further under my duvet.

"Do you want coffee?" I ask.

"It would be great, thanks."

I hurry downstairs and crash into the kitchen. The old kettle chugs to life and lets out a plume of steam that clouds my vision. It bathes the kitchen in a pale grey haze, the fog growing with each passing second until the rumbling stops and the room clears.

Suddenly, I can breathe, the air fresh and welcome, rather than stuffy and hot. It gives me life, meaning, purpose. It also gives me feeling, a weird state after the nothingness morning I've had.

I busy myself with the coffee, mine a roasted hazelnut colour, Jess' butterscotch, before grabbing a jar of Nutella, a pack of rice cakes and two teaspoons. I run the snacks up first and drop them beside Jess. She's far too engrossed in my laptop to notice my return, making it ridiculously easy to dash downstairs without having to reassure her that I'm okay—which I totally am, even if it may not seem like it. Unfortunately, I'm not so lucky when I return with the coffee.

"It's okay to cry," she says as she accepts her mug. "I won't judge you. You've literally loved him since you were thirteen."

"I haven't loved him since I was thirteen," I mutter as I collapse beside her.

"Oh I beg to differ. Whenever we'd play snog, marry avoid, you'd always marry him."

"Not always."

"Always."

My heart seizes, and that something I felt seconds ago fades into nothing.

"Can we not talk about him?" I ask as I hold my mug close.

"Of course."

She turns her attention to my laptop, Netflix to be specific, and hovers the cursor over two slasher films. "Which one?" she asks, switching between their previews.

"I thought we could do rom-coms."

"Rom-coms?"

"I'm not experiencing some crazy aversion to romance. If anything, it would be good to know there's such a thing as a happy relationship."

She looks unconvinced but plops the laptop on my knees and waits for my choice. I dither between Pride and Prejudice and Clueless, the former eventually winning out. It's the 1995 version, so not a movie in the traditional sense, but it totally fits into the rom-com category. If anything, it's the OG rom-com.

We spend the next six hours swooning over Colin Firth and stuffing spoonfuls of Nutella into our mouths. With each passing hour, my bed transforms into a fort—the duvet finds its way around our shoulders, the pillows on our laps, the sustenance squashed between us—and by the end, I'm convinced we could survive for a week.

At least in a week, I might feel something beyond exhaustion. For that's what the nothingness is. Not nothing, nor inertia, but fatigue. It's settled in my bones, my limbs, the muscle mass. It's infected my heart, embedded itself with each life-affirming beat. But, worst of all, it's integrated itself within my mind and dances through, killing the last burning embers of thought with sharp flicks of icy water.

"Do you think I made the right choice?" I ask as the final episode draws to a close in an effort to keep my brain on.

"Of course."

"But is feeling like this any better than feeling like shit?"

Her eyebrows collapse on top of one another, and she wraps an arm around my waist. "You've been feeling like shit?"

"Not shit, but it's been hard. I literally screamed at Paula the other day, and now I'm here, not with Spencer, and it just doesn't seem worth it. Like he loves me. What more do I want? What more can I ask for?"

"Respect? Honesty? Trust?"

"But I trusted him wholeheartedly."

"He didn't trust you."

My heart clenches.

"You gave him everything you deserve without asking for any of it in return."

"Maybe because I don't deserve it," I whisper.

Her arm tightens into a cobra-like grip, and she turns my face until we're eye to eye, nose to nose. "Listen here," she says, her voice too sharp for its own good. "You deserve it. We all do. But you most of all."

"I don't know," I mutter. "I picked him. I knew what I was getting myself into. I can't just back out now that things are getting hard again."

"You're having second thoughts." She shuffles back, the duvet falling as her eyes narrow into impossibly thin slits.

"Not second thoughts, but."

"But?"

"I guess I just need some time to think about everything."

"Alone?"

"Yeah." I smile weakly and reach for her hands. "I've loved having you, Jess, but I think I need to be by myself for a bit. I went from being with Isaac to sleeping to you. Oh, and there was flipping Spencer turning up too. I haven't even really thought about what happened. I still kinda can't even believe it."

"I get it," she says as she wriggles to the edge of the bed. "I'll see you later."

We trail downstairs in semi-awkward silence, made better only by the fact that I pull her into a bone-crushing hug once we reach the door. She burrows her face into my shoulder and squeezes me tight. "If you need me, call."

"I know. I will."

"I mean it, you don't have to go through this alone."

"I know," I smile, squeezing her one last time. "I will call. I just need a few days to get my mind around it."

We untangle ourselves, and I open the door. Unfortunately, Henry appears as Jess closes the gate, looking worse for wear and irate. He gives Jess a quick hug before barrelling into the house and taking me with him. We crash into the living room, and he sits me down on the beige armchair nestled in the nook in front of the bay window before he begins to pace the length of the room.

"Will you sit down?" I ask, slapping my hands against the armrest. "All this movement is giving me a headache."

He stops in the centre of the room, his back to me, and spins around. "Why didn't you come and find me?" he asks, still standing in an overly protective way. Clearly, alpha Henry has been unlocked once again.

"For you to go and say I told you so?" I scoff.

"I would never."

"Come on, Henry, we both know you would."

"Not straight away."

I roll my eyes and drag myself up and out of the armchair. "I don't want to talk about this today, okay."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know, but I do know that I'm not doing it here."

I slip past and head for my room, gathering a few hair products and a towel along the way. Henry catches up with me, but I manage to lock the bathroom door before he has a chance to dig. Not that there is anything to find. No treasure, no certainty, just an untapped well of feelings that will stay hidden if I don't get out of here.

I turn on the shower and strip down into my underwear before lining my hair products up in a row—shampoo, mask, conditioner. A new curl custard I bought three months back rounds up the lineup. Its blue packaging stands out like a sore thumb beside the golden glow of the rest, but in it, I see hope.

Blue's the colour of freedom, of tomorrow, of space and growth.

It's light and dependable.

It's the colour I want to be.

I want to be free and warm and loved.

And not in the searing red hot way Spencer loved me, but in the soft green way that's doting and new. Like spring.

Isaac's like spring. Like Bambi. Scary only for a second, until he smiles all doe-eyed and offers you a soft shoulder to cry on. Not that now's the time to be thinking about him. I mean, I picked Spencer; our time has come and passed.

Then again, he did say that he's here.

No. Now's not the time to think about him. It is, however, time to shower.

The water goes from boiling to ice-cold as I run through my usual hair care routine, of which the curl custard is the pièce de resistance. As with most products, it has a distinctly tropical smell. It's slightly thinner than my usual choice and an odd off-white shade that borders on grey, but it slips through my curls effortlessly, creating a subtle cast that hugs the black strands close, leaving a lasting shine.

The water heats up as I turn to my body and eventually stops altogether. I towel off quickly and dash across to my bedroom, the door slamming shut behind me. Mum's done a tonne of laundry since we got back, replenishing my stock of clean jeans. I wriggle into my favourite pair, its frayed hem grazing against my freshly shaven legs, and throw on a pale yellow linen button-down over my tank top before gathering my hair into a low ponytail and packing a bag.

Dad arrives as I'm leaving. Unlike the others, he values alone time, and after a quick promise to be home by nine-thirty, ten at the latest, he lets me go.

The only thing left to do is figure out where.

***

Lizzie's having second thoughts!!!

Do you think she's done the right thing?

Do you think she'll do the right thing?

Heck, what is the right thing?

I hope you enjoyed the chapter. If you did, please remember to share, comment and vote.

xxx