Episode 2
1687 Words
BLOCKED, DELETED, REBORN
It had been four days since Ava Sinclair deleted every trace of Cole Whitman from her phone, her socials, and her soul. Her apartment still smelled faintly like his cologne—expensive and suffocating. Like everything else about him, it lingered longer than it should have.
The first three days were a blur of tissues, Taylor Swift ballads, and shouting “I deserve better!” into the mirror with mascara-streaked confidence. By day four, Ava was still crying, but this time it was because she’d just cut off eight inches of her hair.
“You want to keep it?” the stylist had asked, holding up the severed ponytail like a dead snake.
“Hell no,” Ava said. “Burn it. Or donate it. Or bury it in the backyard with my dignity.”
Now, sitting in the Uber with a bob that actually made her cheekbones pop, Ava stared out the window and braced herself. She was on her way to her final shift at the marketing agency she’d spent four years defending to everyone—including herself. It wasn’t just a job; it had been a cage made of polite misogyny and false praise. The kind of place that gave Cole a referral bonus for getting her hired and then spent years treating her like “the girl with the hot boyfriend.”
Today was her resignation. She wanted it to be a mic-drop moment, but she had no speech planned. Just a clean letter of resignation, a box of desk crap, and a middle finger ready in her pocket.
When Ava walked in, coworkers blinked at her as if she were a ghost. Or worse—a woman who’d finally snapped.
“New hair,” said Jasmine, the HR rep who still used phrases like “girl boss” and “lean in.”
“New life,” Ava replied with a practiced smile.
She walked straight to her manager’s office, ignoring the way Cole’s best friend and office buddy, Nate, whispered something to the intern. The manager—Steve, who had once told her she should “smile more during client pitches”—looked up and blinked.
“I’m resigning,” Ava said, placing the letter on his desk like a boss. “Effective immediately.”
Steve chuckled awkwardly, clearly thinking she was bluffing.
“I’ve got unused vacation days,” she added. “And unless you want me to start quoting things I’ve heard in the break room, I’d suggest signing off on them.”
His smile dropped.
Ava walked out of that building like it was on fire behind her. She felt light. Empty. Raw. But more alive than she had in years.
---
That night, she sat on the kitchen floor with her best friend, Layla, surrounded by takeout containers and wine bottles.
“So let me get this straight,” Layla said, sipping cabernet and pointing with a chopstick. “You dumped the man, quit the job, cut the hair, and deleted the socials?”
Ava nodded, picking at a spring roll. “The social media part was surprisingly the hardest.”
“Because your i********: was fire,” Layla said. “Like, Vogue-featured fire.”
“It wasn’t real,” Ava murmured. “None of it was. I posted couple goals while he was cheating on me with some girl named... Jade.”
Layla snorted. “Of course her name is Jade. Sounds like a villain in a teen drama.”
“She’s a yoga instructor.”
Layla threw her head back and laughed. “Stop, you’re killing me.”
Ava didn’t laugh. Not yet. But she smiled, and that was something.
Week one of post-breakup life looked like chaos. She cried randomly while brushing her teeth. Slept until noon. Ordered books about healing and dumped them on her coffee table like décor. But she also started painting again. Just canvases full of color and rage. Her art was messy, angry, and hers.
She signed up for a gym membership and didn’t even care that she cried on the treadmill during her first session. The trainer had looked alarmed. Ava had just said, “It’s either this or texting my ex,” and he gave her a fist bump.
Every day, she peeled off a little more of the version of herself she built for someone else.
Then came the call.
Blocked number. Three missed calls. And finally, a voicemail.
She stared at her phone like it might bite.
Layla was the one who hit play.
“Hey… Ava. It’s me. Cole. Just—uh—I heard you left the agency. Wanted to check in. See how you’re doing. I was hoping we could talk. I miss you. And… yeah. I’m sorry.”
Layla looked at her like she expected a full meltdown.
Ava stared at the wall.
Then she deleted the voicemail.
Blocked the number again.
“Holy hell,” Layla whispered. “That’s hot.”
Ava smiled. Not for him. For her.
A month later, Ava started seeing a therapist. Not because she was broken, but because she refused to stay stuck.
Her therapist, Dr. Meyers, was a woman with silver curls and combat boots who didn’t sugarcoat anything.
“Why did you stay?” she asked Ava during their second session.
Ava shrugged. “Because I thought loving him harder would fix it.”
Dr. Meyers leaned in. “That’s not love. That’s survival. And I’m glad you made it out.”
Something cracked open inside her.
On a random Thursday, Ava found herself in a paint-splattered art studio downtown. The kind of place that smelled like turpentine and freedom. She signed up for a class on a whim. And that’s where she met him.
Not Cole. Not a rebound. Not even someone she noticed right away.
But a guy with tattooed forearms, a dimpled grin, and an apron that read: “Paint now, cry later.”
His name was Luca.
And he was chaos wrapped in kindness.
The first thing he said to her was, “You look like you’ve survived something.”
Ava blinked. “What?”
He shrugged, handing her a palette. “It’s a compliment. Survivors make the best artists.”
She didn’t know whether to run or paint or both.
Instead, she stayed.
After class, he walked her to her car.
“You paint like you’re trying to say something without using words,” he said.
She raised a brow. “That’s… intense.”
He grinned. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”
“Do you always flirt with emotionally recovering women at art class?”
Luca smirked. “Only the ones who look like they’ve burned their whole life down and lived to tell the tale.”
She shook her head, amused and slightly horrified. “Wow. That’s… a line.”
“I mean it,” he said, suddenly serious. “Whatever you went through—it didn’t kill you. That makes you dangerous in the best way.”
Something about the way he said it made her stomach flip.
She got into her car and didn’t look back.
Later that night, she stared at a blank canvas.
She painted a woman standing in flames.
And for the first time, she didn’t cry.
Two months into her glow-up, Ava was starting to look in the mirror and recognize the girl she used to be. Not the one who chased validation. But the one who danced alone in her apartment at midnight. Who painted messy and kissed fearlessly. Who used to believe love was magic—not manipulation.
One evening, while scrolling Pinterest for art studio inspo, she got a DM from an unfamiliar name.
@jadewellness
Her blood ran cold.
The message was simple: “Hey. I think we need to talk. It’s about Cole.”
Ava stared at it for five full minutes.
Layla, curled up on the couch beside her, blinked at the screen. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I blocked him. Why is his yoga villain texting me?”
“Don’t respond,” Layla said immediately.
But Ava had a weird gut feeling. The kind you couldn’t shake. The kind that whispered this isn’t over.
And she was right.
Because when Ava finally replied—just a simple “What is this about?”—the response shattered everything.
“You’re not the only one he lied to. Can we meet?”
Three days later, Ava met Jade at a tiny café on the east side of town.
She expected someone insufferably zen.
What she got was a woman with dark circles, chipped nail polish, and shaking hands wrapped around a mug.
“You don’t know me,” Jade said, “but I didn’t know you either. Not until I found your old photos.”
Ava folded her arms. “Get to the point.”
“I didn’t know he was with you when we started,” Jade whispered. “He told me you were an ex. That you were crazy. That you couldn’t let go.”
Ava’s stomach twisted.
Jade continued. “He told me I was different. That he loved me. But he lied. About everything.”
She pulled out her phone. Showed Ava screenshots. Photos. Messages.
Then she showed her something worse.
A group chat.
Girls. Multiple girls. All who had been told they were the one.
All who had been fed the same lies.
All who had been hurt.
Ava felt her pulse in her throat.
“This is bigger than just us,” Jade said. “He’s done this before. He’s still doing it.”
Ava stood up, heart pounding.
For the first time, her pain wasn’t just personal.
It was part of a pattern.
And she wasn’t going to let it keep repeating.
That night, Ava opened a fresh canvas.
She painted not a woman in flames, but a phoenix.
Rising.
Because this wasn’t just about healing anymore.
It was about truth.
About every girl who thought she was alone.
And about the man who thought he’d never get caught.
- Writer
