I don’t remember how I end up on the bathroom floor. One moment, I’m staring at my laptop screen, the word blocked searing into my brain like a flashing neon sign, and the next, I’m crumpled on my knees with my body folded in on itself as if that might protect me from the pain.

This can’t be happening. It can’t be real.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to drag in a breath, but nothing about it helps. The panic keeps pressing into me—tight around my ribs, sharp against my lungs. My hands tremble as I fumble for my phone again.

There’s nothing. No warning. No shift. No buildup I missed.

Just days of thread after thread—I miss you. I love you. I can’t wait to hold you again. His voice in written form, a digital echo of promises and plans. Of forever.

And then—this.

It’s over.

Don’t call or text me again.

The words sit there, taunting me.

Cold. Final.

This doesn’t sound like the man who looked at me like I hung the moon. The man who said he wanted everything with me. This isn’t him. It can’t be.

I call him again. Voicemail.

Again. Voicemail.

Again. Again.

Still voicemail.

A broken sob tears from my throat, and I drop my head to my knees, phone still clutched in my shaking hand. Desperation claws at my chest as I open my messages again and type.

Alex. Please tell me this is a mistake. Please call me. Please.

I hit send. Nothing. Not even a delivered status.

I try again. Nothing––like it’s going into space.

Blocked.

The word slams against my skull, pounding out the only truth that matters now.

Alex Sebring

The man I love.

The man who told me I was his favorite.

The man who called me his American beauty.

The man who kissed me like he never wanted to stop.

Dumped me by text.

And blocked me.

My heart doesn’t just ache—it shatters. Piece by piece, crack by jagged crack, until all that’s left is a hollow shell and the unbearable weight of disbelief.

I press my fists to my temples, trying to hold myself together, but it’s too late. Everything is breaking. I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. Just the broken sound of air slipping past the knot in my throat.

No. This can’t be how it ends. He doesn’t even know I’m coming back. He ended us without even knowing that I’m on my way to him.

The cruelty of it stings sharper than anything I’ve ever known. No one––no one––has ever hurt me like this. Not even Robin.