Days passed, and I did not see or hear about Jackson again. I still jogged every day, but that day, after two hours of pounding pavement, I was ready to explode. Every stride carried the weight of my anger—at Jackson, at myself, at this whole impossible situation that had consumed my life like wildfire.
The worst part? Beneath all that fury, I still remembered how his arms felt around me that night he came to comfort me. How safe I'd felt pressed against his chest, listening to his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek. No matter how much I wanted to hate him, love doesn't just switch off because someone breaks your heart. It lingers like a phantom limb—you keep reaching for something that's no longer there.
By the time I stopped at a water fountain, sweat-soaked and breathless, I'd had enou
