ACE [N.H]

04

My heart pounds in my chest as I climb the stairs, each step heavier than the last. I haven't seen Tommy in what feels like forever. I've missed him so much it hurts, but beneath that ache is something darker—a doubt that I can never fully shake. Long-distance has tested us in ways I never imagined, but the truth is, our relationship hasn't just been strained by the miles. Tommy and I have always teetered on the edge of something fragile, something dangerous.

I've told myself countless times that this is just how relationships are, that every couple fights, every couple struggles. But deep down, I know not every couple deals with what I've had to endure. Tommy isn't just my first boyfriend; he's my first everything. We've been together since the eleventh grade, and leaving him has always felt impossible—like trying to rip out a part of myself.

I met him one summer when my family visited England. He was charming in a way that felt magnetic, his attention intoxicating. But over the years, I've seen the cracks in his charm. I've seen the lies, the excuses, the way he looks at me like I'm not enough when things aren't perfect. And then there's her.

The first time he cheated, I thought it was the distance. We weren't together enough; he needed something I couldn't give him from across an ocean. He swore it wouldn't happen again, that he loved me, that it was a mistake. And I believed him—because I wanted to. Because I needed to.

But even now, I wonder if I'll ever stop questioning. If I'll ever stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.

My friends told me to leave him years ago. "You deserve better," they said, "he doesn't respect you." But it's never been that simple. How do you walk away from the only person who's ever truly known you? And what if—what if all the problems we've had could be solved by finally being together? What if the distance is the real issue, the thing that's kept us stuck in this cycle?

We've talked so many times about me moving in with him, building a life together. He has no idea it's happening now. I've clung to the idea of surprising him, of seeing his face light up when he realizes I've made the leap we've been dreaming about. Part of me hopes this will change everything—that being here, physically with him, will fix the cracks we've been trying to patch for years.

As I reach his floor, my phone feels heavy in my hand, my heart thudding so hard I can barely breathe.

"Hey, are you up?"

I send the message, my fingers trembling as I wait. My next steps hinge on his reply.

"Yeah, but I'm getting into bed now."

Perfect.

"I think there's a package at your door. I sent you something with a friend—can you go check before going to bed?"

Minutes stretch into eternity before my phone vibrates with his response:

"Thank you so much. I love it."

What?

The world feels like it's stopped spinning. My head goes light, but my chest feels heavy, like it's caving in. I grip the key to his apartment, fumbling to unlock the door. The lights are off. The silence is suffocating.

"Tommy?" My voice comes out shaky, barely above a whisper.

Nothing. Not a single sound.

I don't have the energy for games or patience for witty comebacks. My thumbs move on autopilot, typing out a frantic message.

"Where are you? Why are you not home?"

He can't take this long to reply. He just can't.

"What do you mean? How do you know I'm not home?"