Sleep is the last thing on my mind tonight.
I lie in bed, my phone clutched tightly in my hand as I scroll through old messages in Ric’s chat. My heart aches with every swipe, and I wait — hope — for the familiar ping of a notification, for his name to flash across the screen, offering even the faintest thread of connection. But the sound doesn’t come, and neither does the relief I so desperately crave.
The silence feels like an accusation, and I blame myself entirely.
Why did I let Ric think my frustration — the aggravation I felt when I read that damned article — was about him? That I was upset because of his presence in my life, rather than the timing and implications of the article itself?
It wasn’t about him.
It was about Mike.
About how his cruel, calculated interview laid the
