ASHLEY
It’s been two weeks since I broke up with Beckett.
Fourteen days. Ten ignored calls. Six times I nearly texted back and god knows how much I want to, but I needed to hold on and stop myself before I can keep ruining us.
I told him we were done, and I meant it—but I didn’t think “done” would feel like this. Actually, I don’t know what I am feeling anymore. For the record, I haven’t bake my entire life but just because my heart is aching and I don’t want to feel anything, I’m here ruining my kitchen.
A sigh left out of my lips as I stare at the mess on the counter. Flour streaks the hem of my sweatshirt. There's batter in my hair. A broken egg is congealing in the corner of the counter like some kind of metaphor I don’t have the brain cells to untangle.
I don’t even know wha
