unknown number (Ace x-reader)

the pause

The next day, as Ace is getting out of bed and getting ready for the day, (Y/n) is already up. She moves around her kitchen with ease despite her head slightly pulsating. A hangover, she suspects, from her date the previous night. But then again, she vividly remembers telling her boyfriend that she shouldn't drink. She has to work today.
She pours herself a glass of coffee and tries to remember what happened last night after he took her to that party. Maybe the punch was spiked? But why? They had enough alcohol provided that there shouldn't have been a problem.
  She lets out a sigh as she remembers everything that's happened since she got her new job. The world now seems a bit smaller than before. She opens the dishwasher, placing the empty mug inside, before closing it again and starting the appliance.
  A yawn causes her to stretch her arms up in the air and look around the room. She'll need to clean this place up soon, on a day off, tomorrow hopefully.  Her mind wandering slightly afterwards and going back to work, Ace, in particular.
  She can't help but feel guilty for everything that's happening to him. He seemed to be doing fine before she came, and now he seems worse than when they were on good terms. If she had just never brought up anything, if she had just blocked out all of the memories.
Memories. She runs her fingers through her hair, before putting on her clothes for the day. They are the most hurtful thing of the past. The emotions go away, but the memories never do. You're constantly forgetting the pain, but when the memories come floating back, so does the hurt.
Suddenly, with a sense of anguish washing over her, she's reaching up and wiping tears away from her (e/c) eyes. Her heart feels like it's being ripped apart. Her lungs are crushed, leaking out all of the air they held. Thoughts of her ex come crashing into her. Like wave after wave. They beat against her mind. Like a whip against bare skin.
She loved him so much, but he never felt the same way. He played her like an artist would a grand piano, skillfully and beautifully. No piano is special. Not to him. No girl means anything. All that matters is that he collects them.
A sigh escapes her lips. Not a single relationship she's been in since has ever been healthy. Each guy she's dated since, has hurt and used her in someway. Her eyes study her neck in the mirror, bruises are slightly visible. Some almost healed, the blue fading, but others are dark, purple almost. Every guy.
A conversation with her friend replays in her head as she reapplies makeup to hide the imperfections, "Why do you stay with him if he hurts you repeatedly?"
There was a long pause before (Y/n) could form an answer, "I guess I just feel so unworthy of the love I deserve."
When she told her about it, she thought that it would help her feel better about the situation. She didn't.

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