I watched it again.
Not because I wanted to, but because my mind refused to believe what my eyes had already seen. Every time I pressed play, I prayed the faces would blur, that the mons would distort into something meaningless. But no—every frame cut me open all over again.
Her laughter—God, her laughter—was the same one she used to give me in bed, when she still whispered that I was her world. Now it belonged to someone else. A stranger. An enemy. And she wanted me to see it.
My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. The walls around me felt too tight, pressing in until I couldn't breathe. I wanted to run, to escape the image, but it followed me, crawling under my skin, digging into my veins.
I threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall with a dull crack, sliding to the floor, screen still glowing. Still playing. Still mocking me.
My legs gave out, and I sank onto the cold tiles. I pressed my palms against my ears, but the sound seeped through—the gasps, the sighs, the betrayal that played louder in my head than the actual recording.
Tears came then, hot and merciless. Not just for her. Not just for the man she chose over me. But for the years I spent believing in a love that turned to poison. For the sacrifices I made while she carved out my future with a blade hidden behind her smile.
This wasn't a mistake. This wasn't a weakness.
This was a message.
She sent the video to kill me without lifting a hand.
And in that moment, it worked.
Not my body. Not yet.
But my soul? My soul was already gone.