Lovesick | A Beynika Story

𝕷𝖊𝖙 𝕳𝖊𝖗 𝕲𝖔 | Six

Beyoncé Giselle Knowles
Bey's Condominium

I stare at my phone for what feels like hours. I'm sorry.

It's such a simple message—just two words, two little words that don't really say much of anything. But at the same time, they say everything. I read them over and over, my thumb hovering over the screen, waiting for something—anything—to happen. Maybe she'll say more, maybe she'll explain herself, maybe this is the beginning of something new. But nothing else comes.

It's just those two words. And they hang in the air between us like a weight, heavy and thick, pressing down on me.

I'm sorry.

What does that even mean? Is she sorry for pushing me away? Sorry for making me chase her? Or is she just sorry for getting involved in the first place?

I toss my phone onto the bed beside me, letting out a frustrated sigh. I don't know what to do with this. I don't know how to respond, how to move forward. I've been chasing her for weeks, months, trying to break through those walls she's built around herself, trying to show her that there's something real here, something worth fighting for. But maybe I've been wrong. Maybe this isn't something that can be fixed with apologies and late-night texts.

Maybe I need to let her go.

The thought hits me hard, like a punch to the gut, and I feel my chest tighten with a mix of frustration and something else—fear. I don't want to let her go. I don't want to walk away from this, from her. But at the same time, I can't keep doing this. I can't keep chasing after someone who won't let me in, who won't let me get close.

What am I supposed to do?

I close my eyes, sinking back against the pillows, the silence of the room pressing in on me. It's late, but I'm not tired. I'm restless, my mind spinning with a thousand different thoughts, a thousand different scenarios. I keep replaying that night in the dressing room, the way she looked at me, the way she pulled away. The way she said she couldn't do this.

I've always known what I want. I've always been sure of myself, of my choices, of my path. But now, with her, I'm not sure of anything. I'm standing at the edge of something, and I don't know if I should take the leap or walk away.

I can't keep chasing her.

I've told myself that a hundred times. But every time I try to let her go, something pulls me back. Something about her—about the way she makes me feel, about the way she looks at me like she's just as confused, just as scared—keeps me tethered to her, even when I know I should let go.

I don't know how to let go of her.