Chapter 3Bleeding For A Woman Who Does Not Care

The six months that followed were a grueling, savage withdrawal.

I couldn’t sleep. When I closed my eyes, all I saw was the fading red of his taillights on the interstate and the searing, bright pain of that slap.

That night’s high fever, compounded by the time I spent in the cold, had taken its toll. My right ear’s nerve was permanently damaged. The doctor’s words were a blur of regret. I had permanent hearing loss and constant, high-pitched tinnitus.

It was Damon’s most profound souvenir. The world to my right was now silent, filled only with the ceaseless screaming in my ear, a permanent reminder of the despair of that night.

During my weakest moments, I became a pathetic voyeur, creating a fake account to stalk Tatum Van Doren’s social media. Damon had blocked me, so I used her feed to hunt for glimpses of him.

She posted pictures of the Michelin-starred meals he took her to, the limited-edition bags he bought her, and even a picture of her wearing his oversized cashmere sweater, bare-legged, curled up in his library chair playing XBox.

Her captions were always the same, a veiled boast disguised as a complaint: “Ugh, big brother made me come here. So annoying.”

Then there was the post celebrating our breakup: “Universal celebration! Big brother finally dumped the psycho ex who wouldn’t quit. Some people have zero self-awareness. What does five years matter? The seat you occupied was never meant for you, and it’s finally been cleared for the main character.”

“Go look in the mirror, sweetie. You never stood a chance.”

The ultimate insult: Damon Blackwell had liked the post.

The stinging words burned my eyes. I was crying before I realized it. The precious, careful affection I had begged for over five years was now her casual, everyday boast.

On countless sleepless nights, with the tinnitus roaring in my head, I would curl up on the bathroom floor, deleting and rewriting text messages to him through my tears.

Damon, I’m in so much pain.

Damon, I can't hear. Please come back.

Before, if I so much as grimaced, he would be instantly alarmed. He’d pause his video conferences, rub his hands together until they were scalding, and burrow under the covers to warm my perpetually cold stomach. He'd scowl and call me fragile, but he wouldn't sleep all night, pausing every few minutes to kiss my forehead and ask if I was okay.

I genuinely believed, then, that he loved me more than anyone.

But I always chickened out. When the sky lightened, I’d feel silly and weak, deleting every plea.

I lived in a six-month state of zombie-like fog. I'd confuse day and night, robotically waking up, going to the office, and going back to bed. I'd squeeze face wash onto my toothbrush, wear two mismatched slippers to take out the trash, and stare at a stain on the ceiling for hours.

I rotted in that chaos for half a year, and the Ainsley who loved him was finally, truly dead.

Then, a month ago, Damon came back. Drunk, he smashed open my front door, clung to me, and repeated my name over and over.

He buried his head in my neck, his lips right against my right ear, whispering a torrent of apologies and admissions.

I heard nothing.

The irony was crushing: he thought he was making a profound, romantic declaration, but I was a silent spectator watching him perform.

When he finished, he pulled his head back and saw my blank expression. He raised his voice, and the sound—that familiar, imperious, take-charge tone—finally pierced my left ear.

“Ainsley, have you had enough? I’m here. I’m giving you the out. I’ve extended the olive branch. Come home, be good, and I’ll pretend the last six months never happened.”

We got back together. He unilaterally announced that our relationship could resume.

I didn't object.

This time, I was the dream girl he'd always wanted: the docile, reasonable, dignified girlfriend.

Whatever he said, as long as his head was turned towards my right ear, I would simply nod and agree.

I didn’t want him to know I was permanently damaged.