Chapter 2: Breaking the Cycle

2

Derek didn’t come back that night.

The silence in the apartment was deafening. I left the lamp on, half-hoping I’d hear his key in the lock, but it never came.

For the next few days, he didn’t show up, and didn’t answer any of my calls or messages.

His absence became a presence all its own. I checked my phone obsessively, but the screen stayed dark.

If I sent more, all I got was a red exclamation mark.

He’d blocked me on everything—Instagram, WhatsApp, even Venmo. The modern version of slamming the door in my face.

He blocked me—classic silent treatment.

He was a pro at disappearing. He’d done it before, only this time, I didn’t have the energy to chase after him.

It’d happened before. Derek was a master at the cold shoulder. Every time, I’d have to humble myself and coax him for ages before he’d thaw.

I remembered all the times I’d baked his favorite brownies or sent long, apologetic texts, only for him to respond with a thumbs-up emoji days later.

But this time, I was too busy handing over my work to bother.

I packed up my desk, trained my replacement, and filled out HR paperwork. I barely had time to eat, let alone grovel.

That night, as I was buying a plane ticket home, my phone suddenly rang.

The screen lit up with an unfamiliar number. My heart raced as I answered.

It was one of Derek’s friends.

His voice was muffled by laughter and music, the background chaos unmistakable.

The background was noisy—guys and girls laughing, the music so loud it came through the phone.

It sounded like they were at The Velvet Tap, Derek’s favorite dive bar. I could hear someone shouting over a game of pool in the background.

“Lillian, Derek’s drunk. Can you come pick him up?”

I hesitated, looking out my window at the rain. Part of me wanted to say no, but old habits die hard.

Derek loved going to bars. His family was loaded, the band was just a hobby—he didn’t need the money.

He was a regular at every club and dive in the city, his tab always paid by some mysterious trust fund. I used to joke he was the only person I knew who could afford to live like a rock star without ever selling a record.

I’d asked him before why he didn’t just take over the family business. He sneered, said his dad’s many kids from different marriages were fighting over scraps, and he wasn’t about to get in that mess.

The family drama was legendary—step-siblings popping up at every holiday, everyone angling for a slice of the pie. Derek preferred to stay out of it, content to burn through his inheritance at his own pace.

Anyway, his grandfather’s and mom’s inheritance would go to him. He wasn’t short on cash—just wanted to do what he liked.

The freedom was intoxicating for him, stifling for me.

Derek seemed to have no ambition. We had nothing in common there.

I worked late, climbed the ladder, collected certificates and plaques. He collected vinyl and whiskey bottles.

Whenever I landed a project or got promoted and told him, he never seemed interested.

He’d nod, sometimes congratulate me, but I could tell he didn’t get it. I stopped telling him after a while.

He once scoffed that slaving away for a monthly salary was pointless—not even enough to cover what he blew at the bar in a night.

It stung, but I never let him see it. Our lives were moving in opposite directions, and I felt the distance growing every day.

I knew, deep down, we weren’t the same kind of people. Besides physical chemistry, we had nothing in common.

I tried to ignore it, but it was always there, a wedge between us.

I didn’t care about his soul—I just liked his body.

It was shallow, maybe, but at least it was honest.

He ignored my inner world, just got used to my sensibility.

He never asked about my dreams or worries. He just liked that I didn’t cause drama.

That’s fine. So when we break up, neither of us will be heartbroken.

That was the deal, unspoken but understood.

I thought for a moment, agreed, hung up, and looked out the window.

I closed my laptop, grabbed my keys, and headed for the door, the city lights flickering through the rain.

The city at night was even more dazzling than by day. Thousands of lights, endless traffic, all kinds of neon mixing together, drowning out the stars.

I drove through downtown, past the old movie theater and the 24-hour donut shop, watching people hurry along, umbrellas bobbing in the drizzle.

I glanced at my ticket—8 a.m., the day after tomorrow.

It sat on my phone screen, a countdown to a new life I wasn’t sure I wanted.

I sighed.

I pressed my forehead to the steering wheel for a moment, breathing in the scent of rain and coffee. Was this really it?

Honestly, I didn’t want to break up this soon. I really was compatible with Derek in bed, and with all the stress of changing jobs, I’d wanted one last round of breakup sex.

I grinned ruefully, thinking about all those movies where exes hook up for old times’ sake. Maybe I was just weak.

I smacked my lips, a bit regretful, but what could I do?

There was nothing left to say, nothing left to salvage.

…

When I got to the bar, Derek was surrounded by a flock of girls.

The Velvet Tap reeked of spilled beer and cheap body spray. Derek lounged in a corner booth, half the women in the bar orbiting around him like he was the sun.

All shapes and sizes, but all pretty—their thick makeup couldn’t hide the youthful glow in their faces. Clearly, they were all very young.

I felt ancient by comparison, suddenly hyper-aware of my tired eyes and grown-out roots.

No wonder girls liked him. Derek was rich, generous, good-looking, and his playboy reputation just made him more attractive.

He had that aura—the kind that made you forget common sense. Even the bartender seemed a little smitten.

I touched my own face, remembering how Derek once complained:

He’d made a passing comment after a gig, something about my laugh lines. I’d spent weeks researching night creams afterward.

“You’re already twenty-seven. Go get some facials, tidy yourself up, will you?”

It wasn’t meant to be cruel, but it cut anyway. Twenty-seven wasn’t ancient, but it felt like it in a room full of barely-legals.

No wonder he didn’t like me. All the girls around him were in their early twenties.

I watched them, laughing too loud, clinging to his every word. I felt like a faded Polaroid in a world of filters and ring lights.

I didn’t say anything, just stood outside the crowd, meeting Derek’s eyes.

Our eyes met, just for a second. He looked away immediately, pretending I didn’t exist.

But he acted like he didn’t see me, quickly looking away.

I felt invisible, swallowed by the pulsing lights and the drone of the music.

Casey was flushed, clinging to him, her voice syrupy:

She curled up against his side, purring into his ear, her lipstick smudged and eyes shining.

“Derek, have another drink.”

She giggled, waving a shot glass in front of his nose.

Derek smiled.

It was a practiced smile, all teeth and no warmth. The kind of smile that got him anything he wanted.

Under the lights, his eyes were seductive and beautiful, but ice-cold.

I knew that look—hungry, restless, untouchable.

“Drinking like this is boring. Why don’t you feed me?”

He dragged out the words, voice low and teasing. The other girls leaned in, waiting for the next move.

“How?”

Casey blinked up at him, not quite catching on.

Derek didn’t answer, just looked down at her.

He tilted his chin, daring her to figure it out.

Half a second later, Casey got it. Her eyes flashed with surprise, and she threw her head back, downing her whiskey in one gulp.

She slammed the glass down, licking her lips, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

Then Derek suddenly grabbed her chin and kissed her hard.

It was rough, unromantic, almost cruel. The whole bar watched, some people cheering, some filming on their phones.

It wasn’t gentle—more like he was venting something. Casey endured it, head thrown back, eyes tearing up from lack of air.

She didn’t pull away, just let him take whatever he wanted. I watched, frozen.

Whiskey spilled from the corners of their mouths, glinting in the lights. They finally parted, a long silver thread stretching between them.

The room exploded with hoots and applause, the sound echoing off the sticky tile floors.

The crowd went wild, screaming and cheering.

Someone whistled, and a few of Casey’s friends shrieked with laughter. I shrank back, wishing I could melt into the wall.

I knew he was doing it on purpose—to punish me.

He was always theatrical when he wanted to make a point. I was the audience for his little show.

Punish me for giving him the cold shoulder that day, for not coaxing him afterward.

My stomach twisted. I deserved better, I reminded myself.

When I finally walked up to Derek, the crowd noticed me and the noise died down.

The silence was deafening. Everyone waited, watching for the fireworks.

Derek looked up, face blank:

He wiped his mouth, not even bothering to hide the lipstick smeared across his face.

“Why are you here?”

His voice was cold, as if I was an unwelcome interruption.

Looking at him, I suddenly remembered all the days we’d spent tangled up together.

It all came rushing back—the good, the bad, the hopelessly tangled. I remembered how he used to kiss me like that, once.

At the height of passion, we’d once talked about love.

We’d whispered promises in the dark, both of us pretending to believe them.

Does it hurt? Maybe a little.

I felt a pinch, but it wasn’t the sharp, devastating pain I’d expected. More like an old bruise being pressed, tender but familiar.

But how much? Not really. I always knew Derek was this kind of person.

I’d spent years making excuses, but deep down, I’d always known the truth.

A player, always chasing excitement, never able to say no.

He craved chaos, loved the chase, hated routine. He was a storm in skinny jeans.

Selfish, spoiled since childhood, always putting himself first, never caring about others’ feelings.

He was the center of his own universe, and everyone else was just orbiting.

My voice trembled: “Derek, you’re too much.”

I could barely get the words out. They sounded small, even to me.

Derek looked up at me. Even though he was sitting and I was standing, it felt like he was looking down on me.

He always managed to make me feel small. It was his superpower.

His expression stayed cold, a mocking smile on his lips.

He arched an eyebrow, almost amused by my pain.

It stung. I felt twelve years old again, desperate for approval and getting none.

“Too much? You can break up. No one’s stopping you.”

He spat out the words, as if he was daring me to actually do it.

I just stared at him.

For a moment, the world shrank to just us, the thrum of the bar fading away.

I couldn’t count how many times he’d threatened me with breaking up.

I’d lost track—each time chipping away at what little self-respect I had left.

Fifty?

Maybe more.

A hundred?

Probably closer to the truth.

A friend nearby thought he’d gone too far—everyone had seen how I treated him all these years—and whispered:

The bartender gave me a sympathetic look, sliding me a glass of water. Someone put a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Derek, don’t be mad at Lillian. Look, she’s about to cry.”

Even his friends, the ones who used to make fun of me, looked uncomfortable.

And I really did cry.

Tears spilled over, hot and silent. My vision blurred, but I stood my ground.

If you’re going to act, you have to go all the way. When that tear hit the floor, I saw Derek’s face change. His fingers trembled on his cigarette, but he still didn’t say a word, just stared at me coldly.

I watched him struggle with himself, his jaw working, but he refused to look away.

The next second, I said softly:

I steadied my voice, trying to sound braver than I felt.

“Fine, Derek.”

I took a breath, the finality of it ringing in my ears.

“Let’s break up.”

The words hung between us, heavier than the smoke in the air. For a second, I thought he might throw his drink or laugh it off. Instead, he just stared, and I realized—this was really it.

Derek’s face turned ugly, and for a moment I thought he might explode.

He clenched his fists, knuckles white, but he held himself back.

But instead, he laughed—a laugh that sounded like he was grinding his teeth.

The sound was harsh, bitter, nothing like the easy laughs I remembered.

“Impressive, Lillian. Fine. But I never go back to my exes.”

He looked me dead in the eye, his voice cold as winter.

“So don’t come crawling back to me like a dog.”

I flinched, but I didn’t look away. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Okay.” I nodded, wiped my tears, and turned to leave without looking back.

My hands shook, but I kept my head high as I walked out. I wouldn’t let him see me break.

Derek didn’t come home that night. I deleted all his contacts, wiped everything about him, and packed my bags.

I sat on the edge of my bed, going through every message, every photo, every playlist we’d made together. Delete, delete, delete. I stuffed my things in a suitcase, zipped it shut, and leaned against the door, heart pounding.

Early the next morning, I caught the first flight home.

The airport was still dark, the air heavy with the smell of burnt coffee and stale bagels. I checked in, eyes red but dry.

As the plane soared above the clouds, I pulled out my SIM card and tossed it in the trash.

The SIM card clinked into the trash. For the first time in years, I wasn’t waiting for a message. I was finally free—and terrified of what that meant.