7th November — The Day He Came to See Me

 

He met me on Friday, the 7th of November.

 

I was upstairs in my room, laptop open, working. I’d been on shift since 1pm, helping the Texas branch get their stock booked in. Just trying to keep busy, keep my head down, keep my mind from spiralling.

 

When his message popped up —

“I’m here.”

— my stomach flipped.

 

I honestly thought he’d bring Stefan with him. I was braced for that awkwardness, that tension, that three-way mess.

 

But when I walked out, he was standing there alone.

 

Just him.

 

We went to my room.

He sat in the corner chair, boots still on, arms folded in that way he does when he’s trying to look calm but really isn’t. I stayed at the little table, fingers tapping at my laptop, pretending I wasn’t falling apart inside.

 

I told him I had a few things left to finish for work.

He didn’t complain.

He just watched me — quietly, carefully — with that expression like he was trying to read thoughts I didn’t know how to say out loud.

 

He asked questions.

Hard ones.

Personal ones.

Painful ones.

 

And I answered every single one as honestly as I could.

And the ones I couldn’t?

I told him I was still figuring them out myself.

Because that was the truth.

 

I told him how, as Lis, I had tried to tell him the day before — the Thursday — that I was a bad person.

He didn’t know it was me talking.

He kept telling “Lis” she wasn’t a bad person. Over and over.

The amount of times I wanted to scream:

 

“Yes I am — because Lis IS ME.”

 

But I couldn’t do it.

It killed me, hearing him cry — knowing I caused it — and still not being able to tell him the truth until later.

 

He kept saying that we could make anything work.

 

I remember looking at him, really looking at him, and asking softly:

 

“We can’t work this out… can we?”

 

I felt a tear slide out before I could blink it away.

 

We sat in silence for long stretches after that.

Not awkward silence — the heavy kind.

The kind where everything sits between you and you both feel it crushing your ribs.

 

Eventually, I finished working.

The room was cold. My bones ached — part cancer, part exhaustion, part heartbreak.

 

I told him I needed to get into the bed because I was freezing and uncomfortable.

So I climbed under the blanket while he stayed in the chair.

 

I told him — quietly, honestly — that my feelings were real.

He said he was grieving someone who wasn’t real.

 

And I understood that.

I did.

It hurt… but I understood.

 

I told him I was sorry — even though I knew sorry didn’t fix a fucking thing.

 

He went to the loo, and in those few minutes, I tried to pull myself together.

Wiping tears, breathing slowly, coaching myself to stop.

But it wasn’t working.

It wasn’t him hurting me this time — it was me hurting because he was hurting.

 

He came back, sat down again, and kicked off his boots.

That moment — I don’t know why — felt intimate in a way nothing else had that day.

Like he was settling into the truth, even if he didn’t want to.

 

We talked more.

Not arguing.

Not shouting.

Just… talking.

Two people sitting in the ruins of something that never had a chance to exist properly.

 

Then he stood up, walked over to the bed, and tossed something onto it.

 

A bullet vibrator.

 

He said, “That’s yours.”

 

My heart dropped.

Because he’d bought it for Lis.

 

I told him I’d sent him the money for it.

He said I hadn’t.

I told him I had — to his NatWest account.

 

He asked how I even had that info.

I told him I had friends who could find that kind of thing out.

He shook his head — not angry, just disappointed, confused, tired.

 

Then he said something that froze me:

 

“I still want to fuck you.”

 

I told him the truth, the pathetic truth:

 

“I want you to.”

 

And in my head — that broken, desperate part of me — I thought:

 

At least I’d get to lay with him once.

How pathetic is that?

How hollow.

How sad.

 

The woman who used to know her worth… reduced to hoping for one night with a man grieving a version of her that never existed.

 

But that was the truth of that moment.

Raw.

Ugly.

Human.

 

And that’s why I’m writing it — because hiding it doesn’t make it less real.