Episode 9
974 Words
HE NEVER SAW ME COMING
The message came on a Tuesday.
Ava was halfway through organizing her new home studio—sunlight pouring through the giant windows, her playlist of "healing bangers" humming in the background—when she got the text.
Cole: We need to talk. Please.
She stared at the screen for a beat too long. Then she did what any evolved woman would do.
She put her phone face down and kept painting.
By Thursday, he'd sent three emails, two i********: DMs, and a Venmo request for $1 with the caption: Just need a minute of your time.
It was giving desperation.
It was giving you fumbled the bag, my guy.
It was also… tempting.
Not in the way it used to be—not with longing or the echo of that toxic need to fix him—but with curiosity.
What did he want now?
Ava wasn’t afraid. She was intrigued.
So she agreed to meet him. At noon. In a public café. With Ember sitting three tables away, pretending to read a book but definitely ready to throw hands.
When she walked in, Cole was already there.
He stood as she approached, that fake sheepish smile he used to get away with everything plastered on his face. But it didn’t hit the same anymore.
Ava looked like a damn goddess—high-waisted trousers, cropped blazer, confidence sharp as stilettos. Her glow wasn’t just physical. It was spiritual. He looked like someone trying to hold onto a version of himself that no longer existed.
“Hey,” he said, voice soft. “You look… amazing.”
She sat down, didn’t return the compliment.
“Say what you came to say.”
Cole hesitated, then leaned forward, voice low. “I messed up.”
“No s**t,” Ava replied dryly.
“I didn’t see what I had when I had it. You were always… too good for me. I thought I could keep you small and you’d never leave. But now you’re—”
“Thriving?” she offered.
He winced. “Yeah. That.”
Ava sipped her coffee. “Why now?”
“I’ve been seeing a therapist,” he said quickly. “Trying to fix my patterns. And I realized how much I hurt you. I need you to know I’m sorry. Really sorry.”
Ava studied him. The tremble in his hands. The cracks in his charm. This wasn’t about love. This was about guilt.
“You don’t get closure just because you finally feel bad,” she said gently. “That’s not how healing works.”
Cole looked like he’d swallowed broken glass. “I just want a chance to make things right.”
“You can’t,” Ava said. “But you can live with what you did. That’s your karma.”
She stood.
And just before she walked away, she turned and added, “By the way, I’m painting a piece called The Manipulator’s Lament. It’s ugly. Just like the truth.”
Then she left.
That night, she told Luca everything.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t get jealous. Just held her hand as she recounted every word, every breath, every moment she stared down the past and didn’t let it seduce her.
“I’m proud of you,” he said, kissing the back of her hand. “Not just for walking away. For walking tall.”
But the drama wasn’t over.
The next morning, Ava got a call from Sasha.
“You need to see this.”
She texted a screenshot.
Cole’s New IG Post:
A carousel of moody black-and-white photos of himself sitting alone, captioned: “Some mistakes cost you everything. Some women turn pain into art. Some of us just bleed quietly.”
The comment section was split—half fawning over his “growth,” the other half tagging Ava with fire emojis and crown GIFs.
Ava groaned. “He’s turning my trauma into his content.”
Sasha snorted. “Congratulations. You’re his villain origin story.”
Later that week, Ava got an invitation.
Not from Cole.
From a university in New York City.
They wanted her to guest lecture at their psychology and art crossover seminar. Topic?
“Reclaiming Narrative Through Creative Expression.”
It wasn’t just validation. It was full-circle.
She was no longer someone’s broken thing. She was a case study in survival.
The lecture hall buzzed with quiet excitement.
Ava wore her favorite paint-stained blazer, red lipstick, and the calm assurance of a woman who had wrestled with fire and come out glowing.
She stood at the podium, took a deep breath, and began.
“I used to believe healing was a destination. A final point where the pain disappears. But healing is more like waves. It returns, but each time, you’re stronger.”
She paused, letting that land.
“I turned my heartbreak into a gallery, a podcast, and a platform. But more importantly—I turned it into me.”
When the applause came, it wasn’t polite. It was thunderous.
That night, Luca took her out to celebrate.
They ended up dancing on a rooftop bar, slow and close under fairy lights.
“You’ve come a long way from crying in bathrooms,” he murmured.
“And I’ve got a long way to go,” she replied. “But at least now, I’m not doing it alone.”
He kissed her like that meant everything.
Because it did.
Back at home, Ava opened her journal. The one she’d started the day she left Cole.
The first page read: I don’t know who I am without him, but I want to find out.
She flipped to the latest page.
I know exactly who I am. And he never really saw her.
She closed the journal, smiled to herself, and whispered, “He never saw me coming.”
- Writer
