I didn't leave the apartment today.
Didn't open the curtains, didn't check the time, didn't even touch my phone.
I just sat there, one leg up on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands, cigarette between my fingers, staring blankly at nothing.
No music.
No calls.
No distractions.
Just silence. And smoke.
It's funny.
When everything used to be loud, I begged for this kind of quiet.
Now that i have it… I hate how loud it still feels.
Every drag i take, every flick of ash into the tray beside me, feels like a countdown. To what, I don't know.
Maybe i'm waiting for something.
Maybe for Ken to show up.
Knock on my door.
Say something stupid.
Maybe i'd tell him to go to hell. Maybe i'd mean it. Maybe i wouldn't.
But maybe he won't show up at all.
And i'd deserve that too.
It's 6:00 PM — I think.
The city hum outside is starting to pick up again. Distant car horns. Dogs barking somewhere on the lower floors. That one noisy aircon on the second floor that never shuts up.
And then footsteps.
Two sets.
I don't even realize i'm standing until i'm already at the balcony window, barely breathing, neck craning to see the corridor just outside Ken's door.
I hear a laugh.
Hers.
Then i see them.
Celine.
And Ken.
She's in something soft, casual, like she belongs here.
Her hand brushes his arm as they walk, heads tilted slightly toward each other.
They're not holding hands, but they don't have to. The closeness is enough.
Ken's smiling at something she said.
Not the way he smiled at me, cautious, unsure.
This smile looks easy.
Familiar.
Like she never left.
I don't move.
I don't flinch.
I just step out.
Calmly. Smoothly. Light up a cigarette like i've been doing it all day, because i have and lean on the balcony railing like i don't give a single shit.
But my hands are shaking a little.
Out of instinct or habit or something more pathetic, I glance toward them.
Ken sees me.
Of course he does.
His eyes land on me as he pulls out his keys.
They hold for a second too long just a second, like he wasn't expecting me to be there.
Like he forgot i lived right next to him.
I don't look away immediately.
But i also don't smile.
Instead, I take a long, deliberate drag, and then… I look in the opposite direction.
Toward nothing.
Toward everything else.
I hear the lock click.
Door shuts.
Gone.
I stay outside until the cigarette's down to the filter.
My mouth tastes bitter.
Not from the smoke.
From something else.
Disappointment?
No. That's too soft.
Jealousy?
Please.
I'm not some schoolgirl getting her heart broken for the first time.
I'm Cassandra Alcantara.
I've been chewed up and spat out by this industry, burned at the stake in front of cameras, and expected to smile through it all.
I don't get to cry over boys.
Especially not boys who aren't mine.
And Ken was never mine.
He was… a moment.
A break in the storm.
Something i never asked for but found anyway.
But moments end.
Storms return.
People leave.
That's the rule.
That's always been the rule.
I toss the cigarette into the tray, still smoldering.
Then i go back inside.
Shut the balcony door.
Sit in the dark again.
And i tell myself,
You don't get to feel hurt.
You don't get to want simple things.
You don't get to hope.
Because you're the problem.
Not Ken.
Not Celine.
You.
And this?
This is what you get.