The slam of Sophie's car door echoes in my ears long after she pulls away. I stand in front of the building for a moment, watching her taillights vanish into the street before sighing and trudging into my apartment. The day has felt like a whirlwind-a blur of fake smiles, overpriced dresses, and far too much energy spent trying to convince myself that I'm okay. Spoiler alert: I'm not.

I kick off my shoes and drop the bags on the kitchen counter, their soft thud barely registering as I head straight for the fridge. I grab a bottle of water and press it against my forehead before twisting off the cap and taking a long sip. The cold liquid sends a chill through me, but it does nothing to help the heat of the emotions swirling inside.

I glance around the apartment-my father's apartment, really-and it feels both familiar and foreign at the same time. It's not a bad place, not at all. Hardwood floors, big windows that let in too much sunlight, and high ceilings that give the place an airy, open feel. But it's cluttered with my life, my real life. Paintbrushes lay scattered on the kitchen island, canvases lean against the walls, half-finished projects fill every nook and cranny. A rainbow of paint stains smudge the floors, little splashes of colour that have become part of the decor, much like the splatters on my clothes most days.

This is my sanctuary, my personal escape. Except today, it feels suffocating.

I collapse onto the couch, pulling my knees up to my chest as I stare at the organized chaos around me. It all reminds me of how much I've been trying to hold together. Everything feels like a metaphor lately. My art supplies scattered everywhere are pieces of me-hopes,

The thing is, this apartment wasn't supposed to be mine, not like this. It was my father's. When my parents divorced, he left my mom and me for another woman, and I never forgave him for it. He moved on, started a new life, and I...well, I stayed with my mom, pretending I didn't need him. After he died, he left everything to me-this apartment, his money, his legacy. But I don't touch any of it. I won't. Because how can I accept anything from the man who destroyed our family?

I refuse to use his money. The apartment is the one exception. It's practical-rent-free-but it's also a constant reminder of him and his betrayal. Kind of like Jake.

I shake my head, trying to push the thought away. But it's like trying to shake off a shadow. Jake's betrayal feels like an echo of my father's. Another man who promised me the world and then shattered it.

I take another sip of water, but it does little to calm the burning inside me. My phone buzzes on the couch beside me. I hesitate before picking it up, scrolling through the unread messages. Most are birthday wishes, all cheerful and well-meaning. But they feel hollow today.

Then I see it.

Jake.

The name alone makes my throat tighten. His message is short, impersonal:

Happy birthday, Emma. Hope you're doing well.

That's it.

I feel the rage bubbling up again, that familiar fire burning through my chest. But then, without warning, the tears come. Silent at first, just a sting behind my eyes. Then they fall, and before I know it, I'm sobbing, ugly and uncontrollable. The phone slips from my hand and lands on the floor with a loud thud.

This is the first time I've cried since I found out about Jake and Celine. I didn't think I would-I thought anger would be enough to protect me from the pain. But here it is, crashing over me in waves, threatening to drown me. It's like every piece of me is breaking at once, and there's no way to stop it.

I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand, but the tears keep coming. Through the blur, my mind drifts to a memory-one that feels like a lifetime ago. I can't help but remember the sweet words Jake once said to me, back in college, before everything went wrong.

We were at the park, having a picnic under the oak tree. I can still picture it perfectly-the blanket spread out, sandwiches we didn't even eat because we were too busy laughing. Jake was stretched out on his back, one arm draped over his eyes to block the sun. I was lying beside him, tracing the lines of his hand, memorizing the way his fingers curled.

"One day, I'm going to make you my wife," he'd said, his voice soft but full of certainty.

I remember laughing at him, thinking he was joking. But when I looked up, his blue eyes were serious, a slight smile playing on his lips. It was the kind of moment that felt like a promise, one I believed in.

I was young then, naive enough to think that love was something permanent, something you could hold onto if you tried hard enough. But Jake shattered that illusion, just like my father had shattered my family.

The memory fades, leaving an ache behind. I wipe at my eyes again, my breathing slowly evening out. For the first time, I let myself admit that maybe-just maybe-this whole fake-boyfriend idea was stupid. It was never going to work. What was I thinking, trying to play a game to win back my dignity? Jake didn't deserve that kind of effort. And I didn't deserve to lower myself to that level.

I sigh, leaning back against the couch. It's exhausting, this whole situation. The truth is, I don't want to date anyone right now. Not for a long time. The idea of falling in love again, only to have it ripped away, feels like too much. I don't think I can handle being hurt like that again. Maybe I'm better off alone.

I push myself off the couch, brushing the tears from my cheeks as I head toward the bathroom. A shower. That's what I need-a chance to wash off the remnants of the day, the pain, the memories.

As I walk toward the bathroom, I pause, looking back at the apartment once more. It's messy, chaotic, and unfinished, just like me. But maybe that's okay. Maybe it doesn't have to be perfect right now. Maybe I don't have to be perfect right now.

I turn the faucet on, the steam rising from the shower as I step inside. Tonight, I'll get dressed, go to the party, and pretend-just for a little while-that everything is fine. But for now, I'll just let the water wash away the tears and the memories.

One step at a time.