Deviant Love

16 - HER

[Chapter 16]

I am tired.

In that dim room, I felt tired when he was around. The butterflies in my stomach used to be exciting, but now they were just exhausting. It's weird, you know? Like loving him and hating him at the same time. Seeing a fucking spark of hope and feeling pathetic about it.

I hated that younger version of me who was head over heels for him, the guy who just left without a word. Our messed-up relationship left me with a bunch of body issues. 

Every time I looked in the mirror, I thought, "Am I not pretty enough? Too fat? Too skinny?" It was a cycle of self-loathing and "maybe." The fucking maybe. Because I did not know the answer.

Was I the problem?

But, deep down, I missed him. I missed his eyes and how he touched me. His breath on my neck and those daisies he brought every day.

I found myself yearning for him incessantly. His gaze, a reflection of the depth of our connection, haunted my thoughts. The fervent touch of his hand against mine created a melody, a hymn that resonated through my entire being. The absence of his warm breath on my neck, accompanied by the gentle tickling sensation, left an unmistakable void.

So, to fill that damn void, I took a detour into the realm of self-indulgence. Mini skirts, cleavage for days, a language that could make a saint cringe, and a drink in hand—basically, the recipe for catching any guy's attention. They'd come my way, spinning sweet tales with words steeped in honey and bourbon.

Oh, I looked stunning, according to them. The best they'd ever had, or so they claimed. Lucky them, getting to spend a night with me.

Little did they grasp that all I craved was a glance, the one he used to shoot my way. Those damned dimples surfaced when he smiled at the mess I made and then helped me clean up—a memory etched in my mind.

I don't remember a sober instance while getting tangled up with those guys. In every hazy encounter, all I could envision was him, how he held me, the warmth of his touch. I hungered for that, even amid these pointless dalliances.

God, how I fucking missed him.

I looked at myself in the mirror, and all I could see was a woman who had spread her legs for countless men. A real MVP in the self-worth game, a premium-grade, gold-star whore.

The self-hatred pierced through me like a dagger, a reminder of my own perceived degradation. I hated myself.

Nausea hit me like a relentless tsunami, the bubbling sensation inside yearning for a dramatic exit. My body language screamed discomfort—slumped shoulders, a hand unsteady as it brought the glass to my lips.

But instead of the expected release, tears made their grand entrance, tracing a path down my cheeks. I sobbed.

The sobs erupted, the room echoing with the sounds of my unraveling. I had successfully turned myself into a mess.

Ruined.

And the painful irony? I hadn't even realized it.

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