Six Months Later [POV: Abigail]
My hands won’t stop shaking.
The world around me moves in a blur—headlights streaking past, the murmur of people passing by, the muffled beat of music spilling from a bar down the street. But I can’t process any of it. My pulse is pounding too hard, my breath coming too fast.
I stagger down the steps, one hand braced against the stone railing, the other clutching my stomach. My coat hangs open, useless against the chill settling into my bones. I should have worn something heavier. I should have planned for this.
But I hadn’t expected tonight to end like this.
I knew it.
God, I knew it.
How could I have let this happen again? How could I have trusted him?
My legs threaten to buckle, but I push forward, one step, then another. The city stretches ahead of me, but I feel trapped, like the walls of that room are still closing in, suffocating me.
The room.
The door had been unlocked when I arrived, just slightly ajar. That should’ve been my first warning. But I’d ignored it, telling myself I was being paranoid. That I was just exhausted.
Then I stepped inside.
The bedroom light was on, casting a dim glow over the tangled sheets. A glass of water sat on the nightstand, condensation dripping down its sides. A woman’s scarf was tossed over the back of a chair.
It wasn’t mine.
I barely heard the sound of movement before I saw him.
Half-naked, sitting on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair as if that could erase the proof in front of me. His mouth opened, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. The blood rushing in my ears was too loud.
Then I saw it on the floor.
A bunch of flowers. A rush of flashback came to my mind.
It wasn’t a misunderstanding. It wasn’t a coincidence.
It was betrayal.
“Abigail… this isn’t what you think.”
He had the audacity to look at me like I was the one making a mistake.
I felt sick. My fingers curled into fists, nails digging into my palms. I’d seen the signs, hadn’t I? The late nights, the unanswered texts, the way he pulled away when I reached for him.
“You’re being paranoid.”
“I’ve been working my ass off.”
“I would never, ever lie to you.”
Lies.
Every last word had been a lie.
A sharp pain shot through my stomach, but I barely felt it. My body was too numb, too far gone to process anything but the raw ache spreading through my chest.
And then my hand moved on its own.
I hadn’t even realized I was carrying it until I felt the weight in my palm, cold and solid.
The gun.
I’d grabbed it out of instinct, out of fear, out of the desperate need to have some control over the nightmare unraveling in front of me.
His eyes widened, hands raised as if that could stop me.
“Abigail, don’t do this… let me explain.”
I could still hear the panic in his voice, the desperation.
I could still see the way his mouth formed the words, the way his body tensed like he thought he could stop me.
But I didn’t hear him.
All I heard was the sound of my own heart breaking.
My grip tightened. My breath hitched.
And then I pulled the trigger.
The memory slams into me so hard I stumble, my shoulder catching against the side of a building. A passerby glances at me, but I barely register them. My pulse is still racing, my mind still stuck in that room, with him.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. The image is burned into me, every detail seared into my memory.
Did I kill him?
I don’t know.
I don’t care.
All I know is that I can’t go back.
I push away from the wall and keep walking, one hand still cradling my stomach, the other clenched at my side.
I need to disappear.
Before the past catches up to me.
