Derek laughed at me.
“Therapy can’t fix gravity, baby,” he said, and went to bed.
That phrase stayed in my head for weeks. It repeated itself every time I looked in the mirror.
Gravity. Like I was falling apart and nobody could do anything about it.
Then came the day that changed everything.
Derek had left his laptop open on the kitchen counter when he went to take a shower.
I walked past when a notification popped up on the screen. A message from someone named Tanya, with a kiss emoji after her name.
I wish I could tell you I handled it with grace and dignity, but I didn’t. I just stood there, staring at the notification.
And then, before I could stop myself, I clicked on it.
The messages that opened made me nauseous. They were flirty and so informal, as if I didn’t exist at all.
