Kimberly
Cindy’s voice droned on, a mix of regret and desperation that I had no patience for. She was pacing now, her hands gesturing wildly as she talked about choices, mistakes, and the love she’d lost. I didn’t care. Not one bit.
Her words barely registered, each sentence a muted hum in the background. My focus wasn’t on her—it was on the oppressive weight that pressed down on me like a shroud. The weight of my life, of Kendrick, of this suffocating reality I could never escape.
Cindy thought she had problems. She thought losing Kendrick was the worst thing that could have happened to her. I wanted to laugh—sharp, bitter laughter that would make her stop talking and realize how ridiculous she sounded. She didn’t know the half of it.
Kendrick wasn’t a prize. He wasn’t some treasure
