I told Ryan I needed space, and for the first time in this entire psychotic Shakespearean spiral of a relationship, he didn’t argue. No smug retorts, no world-class gaslighting, no slow drawl of “Scarlett, be reasonable” like I was just one tantrum away from fainting on a chaise lounge. Just a nod. The kind of nod people give when they’ve already rehearsed the loss. When they’ve already said their goodbye inside their head and all that’s left is the body following through. I didn’t know what I expected... maybe for him to fight, to plead, to whip out a scandalous revelation that made me forget I’d ever grown a spine in the first place. Or maybe one of those tortured “but I love you”s that reek of desperation and poorly aged romance novels. But instead, there was nothing. No protest. No pan
