Can't get over you

Chapter 4

The building stood tall, glass and concrete and ambition. My reflection looked back at me in the door’s sleek black surface. Pale. Anxious. Pretending.

The wait felt endless until a man in a fitted grey suit appeared.

"Farah?"

I stood quickly, smoothing my skirt. "Yes. That’s me."

"Good morning, Miss Farah. Please, have a seat."

I stepped inside, heels clicking against polished floors. The receptionist smiled politely, took my name, and told me to wait. My fingers gripped the edge of my purse as I sat on the edge of a too-soft chair.

Just breathe, Farah.

He opened the door to a sleek conference room. Three people sat behind a table. A woman with a sharp bob and red lipstick. A man with rimless glasses and a blank expression. And another woman, scribbling something on a notepad.

"Follow me. The interview panel is ready."

I sat, praying my knees wouldn’t knock audibly beneath the table.

"Tell us a bit about yourself."

I smiled, tight. "I have a background in public relations and content strategy. I’ve worked freelance the last few months, but I’m hoping for something more stable."

Red Lipstick narrowed her eyes. "We handle a lot of pressure here. How do you manage stress?"

"I live with it."

My cheeks burned. "I mean—I break it down. One fire at a time."

"If you get the job, you’ll be with the campaigns team," he said. "It gets crazy, but it’s never boring."

I smiled. "Crazy doesn’t scare me."

"Why our company?"

"Because I admire the way you blend creativity and results. Your last campaign for VexSkin was brilliant. It made me think—maybe I could be a part of something bigger again."

A few more questions. I tried to breathe between them. They thanked me. Said they’d let me know through email. I stood, legs trembling.

"Hey, I’m Leon. I’ve been asked to give you a quick tour."

He was kind. Walked me through departments full of laughter and energy. People creating. People connected. Everything I used to be.

Inodded, still half-numb. "Thanks."

The last few days blurred together. My mum’s words. Tara’s tears. Aaron’s silence.

The café smelled like cinnamon and comfort. I ordered a flat white and found a seat by the window. My bones ached. I hadn’t even done much today, but my heart felt like it had run miles.

I curled my hands around the warm mug when it arrived and stared out at the street. People passed in coats and scarves, wrapped in conversations, lives, joy.

I almost believed things could get better.

The bell above the door jingled.

Aaron?

And beside him? A woman. Tall. Beautiful. The kind of beauty that doesn't need effort. She laughed at something he said and touched his arm like she’d done it a thousand times.

Her hand lingered on his. She laughed too loudly at his jokes. And he let her.

Our eyes met.

Aaron looked up. I didn’t meet his eyes.

"Farah. Didn’t expect to see you here."

I shrank into my seat.

"Helena," she said brightly, extending a hand. "Aaron’s told me about you."

The woman smiled warmly. "Oh, this is her? You’re Farah?"

My throat clenched. "Depends on who’s asking."

"Mind if we join you?" she asked.

"Sure," I heard myself say.

They sat.

Helena talked. She was magnetic. Confident. Funny. Too familiar with him.

She gets the softness. The glances. The things I begged for.

"But you didn’t finish your drink," Helena said.

I stood suddenly. "I have to go. Errands."

"Guess I wasn’t that thirsty."

I sipped my coffee and smiled when expected. My insides? Numb. Burning. Both.

I walked out.

A car swerved. I jumped back onto the sidewalk, heart slamming.

"LOOK WHERE YOU'RE GOING, CHICK!"

"Sorry," I mumbled.

He moved on.

He moved on.

And I—I’m stuck. Haunted. Drenched in all the things I wanted him to say.

The second I was outside, the tears clawed at my throat.

I hated this. I hated how he pretended I was just someone he used to know.

I hated how I let him.

I crossed the street without looking.

My legs carried me home, but my mind? It dragged behind.

I didn’t move.

Mum was in the kitchen.

"The slut is back already?" she turned, eyes already sharp.

"You used to have potential. What happened to you, Farah? What happened to my daughter?"

"Mum—"

"What now? Another failed interview? Or did the boy kick you out again?"

"You're not. You’re nothing. You’re weak. Always have been."

I bit the inside of my cheek until it bled.

"You think you deserve love? You think people owe you something because you’re sad? Get over yourself. No wonder he left. No one wants a girl who falls apart every five minutes."

"I’m ashamed of you."

I didn’t answer.

She’s angry. She’s hurting. She doesn’t mean any of it.

But if she didn’t… why did it feel like she did?

Why did it feel easier to believe her than to keep pretending I mattered?

I told myself she didn’t mean it. I repeated it over and over in my mind like a prayer.

I stayed quiet.

The front door creaked as I opened it.

I turned away and climbed the stairs, slowly.

I was drowning in my own skin.

"Why can’t I be enough?"

And then I broke.

Or it felt like it.

And then—nothing.

I sobbed. Loud, ugly sobs. I curled into myself, rocking, begging for the pain to stop.

I was dying.

Blackness.

Stillness.

My heart pounded out of rhythm. My vision blurred. I gasped, panicked, hands clawing at my chest like I could rip the pain out of me.

The tears soaked into my pillow. My chest ached. My throat burned.

In my room, I shut the door, dropped everything, and fell onto the bed.

"Why doesn’t she love me?"

"Why do they all leave?"

I couldn’t breathe.

Silence.