Mr. Darcy rubs against my jeans, arching his back and raising his tail, wanting me to pick him up. I oblige him and bring him upstairs with me. In my room, I change into PJs and try to coax the blood to flow back to my red toes, rubbing my feet in a blanket and putting on a pair of clean, warm socks. Then I hide under the covers.

It’s a mistake.

The sheets still smell of Diego. Against my better judgment, I grab his pillow and press it to my nose, inhaling deeply. I’m exhausted, ironically, because I spent the night awake making love to Diego, and I can’t wrap my head around how much has changed in such a short time. How can one person go from waking up so perfectly happy, to ending up back in bed less than twelve hours later so utterly destroyed?

I smell the pillow again, and that does it; tears streak down my cheeks uncontrolled. Mr. Darcy is purring next to me, but the sound’s usually soothing effect is lost on me today. I can’t help but resent the cat a little at how content he looks; he has his half of the bed all back to himself.

All I want to do is sleep, but my brain is too jacked up to let me. But as my body begins to warm up after being out in the cold for the better part of the afternoon, the heavy blankets and hypnotic purring sound start to win. Weariness takes over, and I doze off.

When I open my eyes again, there’s a faint light coming in through the windows. How long did I sleep? The bedside table clock tells me it’s half past six in the morning. Oh, so I was out cold all evening and night. I sit up in bed feeling slightly sick and dizzy, my stomach protesting loudly. Figures. I’ve had nothing to eat since yesterday at breakfast, when the world still seemed like a good place.

I sneak down to the kitchen, brew a pot of dark coffee, and eat a leftover cinnamon bun. Before anyone wakes up, I go back to my room. Unfortunately, caged up in here, my brain starts obsessing again. I’d like to be one of those proud women who can flip a switch and immediately move on with their lives after being dumped. But I’m not. So, less than an hour later, I text Diego. No reply comes. I call him once, twice, with no result. I write him an email begging him to pick up the phone. Text him again. Call.

Nothing.

There’s only silence on the other side.

By midday, my depression is turning into seething anger. How dare he sleep with me and then run away the next day without a word? So, yeah, I made a mistake. I wasn’t one hundred percent honest with him from the start. But our relationship became something neither of us expected, and at least I was ready to stand and face my mistakes. Like an adult would. He’s just a child running away.