I pulled the pillow right over my head, squeezing it tight against my ears as if I could block out every thought, every feeling, every stupid, foolish part of me that still cared.
That is his problem, not mine, I told myself fiercely. Let him go wherever he wants. Let him sit with her, talk to her, smile at her. I don't need him. I don't need anything from him.
But even as I repeated it, the sharp, burning twist of jealousy coiled tight in my chest, hot and bitter and impossible to ignore. And worse — against every bit of my pride, I found myself listening. Waiting. Every sound from the hallway made my breath catch, every quiet step made my heart leap.
Fifteen minutes dragged by like an hour. The silence outside stretched long and empty, and slowly, my chest tightened with a different kind of ache.
He's gone, I realized, cold and heavy. He went to her. Of course he did. Why would he stay here with me when he has her waiting?
