Beautiful Damage

My Biggest Regret

Ashlyn liked how he stood. His spine stayed straight and his shoulders rested back like the room shifted to make space for him before he even spoke. When he looked at her, it felt like being chosen.

“You know people stare when we walk in,” Grant murmured, his fingers brushing the small of her back as they stepped into the restaurant. “They’re staring at you,” she said.” They’re staring because you’re with me.”

He said it like a promise. She liked that more than she wanted to admit. Being beside him felt like elevation, like she was upgraded just by standing there. Grant Holloway talked about discipline the way other boys talked about dreams. Routine, sacrifice, honor, deployment.

“They might move the date up,” he told her one night, leaning against her dresser like he belonged there. “Could be weeks.” “That soon?” She asked, watching him take his clothes off. “It’s what I signed up for.” He carried it like something holy, like urgency made him noble.

“I don’t want you to leave,” she admitted. “Then don’t make this harder than it has to be.” The word harder lingered in the air like an accusation. Like she was the obstacle. Later, he started measuring time out loud. “I don’t have much of it,” he said. “You get that, right?” “I know.” Grant fired back. “Do you?”

Her mind searched for the right response, the correct one, the one that wouldn’t disappoint him. She liked clean lines. She liked knowing where things went. This felt uneven.

“You either trust me or you don’t,” he said. “I do.” “Then why do you keep pulling away?” “I’m not.” “You freeze,” he said, stepping closer. “Like I’m some stranger.” She wasn’t freezing. She was thinking. “I just need time.” “I don’t have it, please Ashlyn, I love you.” The words were flat and final, full of list and deceit.

“I’m about to leave for something bigger than both of us,” he said. “And you’re worried about being ready?” Ready sounded childish in his mouth. Small. “I’m not trying to hurt you,” he added, his voice softer now. “But you can’t keep holding back.” Holding back, like caution was selfish.

“You trust me,” he said again. It wasn’t a question. Ashlyn nodded because disagreement felt dramatic, because doubt felt like betrayal, and because she didn’t want to be the reason something ended.

Later, the ceiling fan clicked above them in a slow, repetitive rhythm. She stared at a crack in the paint and traced it with her eyes because it was easier than tracing what she felt.

Grant rolled away first. “See?” he said lightly. “That wasn’t so hard.” Her throat burned, from the crying and screaming he overlooked. “I wasn’t ready.” “You were. You just overthink everything.”

Overthink, like hesitation was a defect.

He kissed her forehead. “Don’t make this weird.” Weird, like if it felt wrong then she was wrong.

At the door he paused. “You’re mine, okay?” Protective and possessive, framed like they were synonyms. She nodded.

After he left, she smoothed the blanket flat. She pulled the corners tight and adjusted the fabric until it looked untouched.

One. Two. Three. Four. If she chose it, then it couldn’t have happened to her. The next afternoon her phone buzzed. A group chat request.

Toby added you.

Sydney added you.

Ashlyn frowned. Camp faces. Not friends.

Ashlyn: What is this?

Toby: Don’t freak out.

Sydney: We need you to see something.

A screenshot appeared. Grant’s name sat at the top. Different contact. Same tone. Another screenshot followed with the same lines repeating. “I don’t do casual.” “You’re different.” “I’ve never felt this way.” Her stomach dropped.

Ashlyn: This isn’t funny.

Toby: It’s not a joke. Look at the dates.

She did.

Weeks overlapped. Excuses recycled. Nights he said he was busy.

Ashlyn: Who is she?

Sydney: Her name’s Lila.

Toby: She was at camp too.

Ashlyn: How old?

There was a pause before the reply appeared.

Sydney: Fourteen.

The number didn’t register at first. Fourteen.

Ashlyn: That’s not possible.

Toby: It is.

Sydney: He’s been talking to her for months.

Ashlyn swallowed.

Ashlyn: Did you tell her parents?

Toby: She doesn’t believe us.

Sydney: She thinks we’re lying.

She stared at the screen.

Ashlyn: Add me to the call.

The phone rang once. Then twice. A small voice answered. “Hello?”

“Lila,” Toby said gently. “It’s Toby. Sydney’s here. Ashlyn too.” “I told you I’m not doing this,” the girl snapped. Ashlyn kept her tone steady. “Lila, I’m not here to attack you. I’m here because Grant was dating me.”

Silence.

Then a brittle laugh.

“He said you were crazy,” Lila said. “He said you’re obsessed.” The word hit clean. “He said that about Sydney too,” Ashlyn replied. “That’s not true. You’re jealous.” Jealous. Cleaner than manipulated.

“Look at the screenshots,” Sydney said softly. “I don’t care about screenshots,” Lila shot back. “You can fake anything.” Ashlyn closed her eyes. “How old are you?” she asked. “You know how old I am.” “Say it.” There was a pause. “Fourteen.” The number landed heavy.

“He told me you were nineteen,” Lila added quickly. “He said you pressured him. Something inside Ashlyn went quiet. “He told me you were eighteen,” she said. “He said you were mature.” Silence filled the line. “He wouldn’t lie to me,” Lila whispered. There it was. The defense.

“Lila,” Ashlyn said softly, “I thought that too.” “You don’t understand. He loves me.” The word sounded borrowed. “If he loves you,” Ashlyn asked carefully, “why does he tell you to keep secrets?”

Silence.

“He said people wouldn’t understand “That’s what he told me,” Ashlyn replied. “When I asked questions.” “Tell your mom,” Sydney urged. “No,” Lila snapped, fear sharpening her voice. “You’re trying to ruin this.” “We’re trying to stop him,” Toby said “You can’t stop him.”

There was pride in it. Borrowed pride. Ashlyn felt the weight of that, the way he positioned himself at the center, the way doubt became betrayal. “Lila,” she said one last time, “this isn’t your fault.” The line went dead.

Ashlyn stared at her screen.

Sydney: She hung up.

Toby: She blocked me.

Ashlyn: She doesn’t believe us.

Sydney: I know.

Toby: He got to her first.

Ashlyn set the phone down slowly. Just a fourteen-year-old girl defending the man hurting her. Her phone buzzed again.

Grant: You need to stop talking to people.

Grant: They’re twisting things.

Grant: You know me.

She did know him. She knew how he stood and how he spoke, how urgency sounded like devotion. Somewhere across town, a fourteen-year-old girl was staring at her own phone, convincing herself secrecy meant love.

Ashlyn inhaled.

One. Two. Three. Four. He hadn’t been noble. He’d been strategic. Ashlyn picked up her phone.

Ashlyn: We keep the screenshots.

Ashlyn: We keep trying.

Because truth didn’t disappear just because someone refused to see it. For the first time, Ashlyn didn’t feel chosen.

She felt awake.