Fractured

Center Of The Room, Edge Of Me

The next time I saw Nero, three days had passed.

Three days of replaying that night in my head like it was stuck on an endless loop. The way his mouth had found my neck, the way he’d said my name like it belonged to him.

I typed at least a dozen messages during those days, deleting each one before I could hit send.

When he finally called, it wasn’t to explain.

Party tonight. Wear something I’ll want to take off you later.

No hello. No “I missed you.” Just an order, wrapped in the kind of tone that made it sound less like a request and more like gravity.

The party was in a penthouse so high up I could almost see the curve of the earth. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls, soft gold lighting, champagne towers glittering like something out of a movie.

This was Nero’s world. Sleek, loud, intoxicating.

He was magnetic here, in his element. People leaned toward him without even realizing it, hanging on every lazy smile and perfectly timed glance. He wasn’t just at the center of the room, he was the center.

I stayed close at first, letting him introduce me to strangers whose names I forgot the moment they said them. I laughed when he said something funny, sipped the drink he handed me.

Somewhere between my first and third glass of champagne, I realized I hadn’t seen him in over an hour.

I found him on the balcony, cigarette in hand, talking to a brunette whose dress was seemingly struggling to stay beneath her ass. Her lipstick matched the red of her nails, her laugh practiced and sharp

She leaned in when he spoke, like she was trying to inhale him.

“Enjoying yourself?” I asked, leaning against the railing beside them.

Nero didn’t even flinch. “It’s a party, Sarah. Try it.”

The brunette smiled like I was the child interrupting the adults’ conversation.

It should’ve been nothing. He wasn’t mine, not really. But for the rest of the night, every time I looked up, there they were.

Laughing. Talking too close. Sharing a cigarette, passing it between their lips in a way that felt more intimate than kissing.

By the time he finally came over to me, my smile felt like it had been carved into place.

“You disappeared,” I said.

“So did you,” he replied, too quickly.

“I was here. You just weren’t looking.”

He sipped his drink without answering.

“You’re acting like I’m your boyfriend,” he said eventually.

The words hit harder than I wanted them to. “And what are you acting like?”

“I’m acting like myself. You should try it.”

We left together, but the air between us was sharp enough to cut skin.

In the car, I stared out the window at the blur of streetlights while he drove in silence.

At his place, I expected him to slam the door or start yelling. Instead, he just tossed his keys on the counter.

“If you can’t handle this,” he said, “maybe don’t be here.”

And then he walked into the bedroom, leaving me standing there like a coat he’d decided not to wear.

I wish I could say I left. That I had enough self-respect to turn around and walk out.

But instead, I stayed.

And when he didn’t come back out, I went looking for somewhere else to be.

The bar I ended up in was the opposite of Nero’s world. Low ceilings, sticky floors, and a jukebox that skipped every third song.

That’s where I saw Tammy.

Mid-thirties, greasy hair, the same baggy jeans he’d probably been wearing for a week straight. His smile was tired and yellowed at the edges.

He bought me a drink. Then another. He told me about some band he was “getting back together,” like anyone cared.

By the time we stumbled into his apartment, the place smelled like stale smoke and old takeout. The couch cushions sagged like they’d given up years ago.

It wasn’t good. It wasn’t even satisfying. But I didn’t care. I didn’t want to go home and I just wanted to feel... wanted.

For one brief, bitter moment, it felt like I’d stolen back some kind of power.

I went back to Nero’s the next morning, feeling disgusted with myself, half-expecting to find him there, waiting with some cutting remark.

But the apartment was empty.

No note. No text. No trace of him except for the faint scent of his cologne on the pillow.

I told myself he’d call. That maybe he was letting me stew, teaching me a lesson.

Two days passed. My phone stayed silent.

And the silence started to feel like punishment.