Chapter 7 – Good Boys Die First
Freedom wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t wild or chaotic.
It was just quiet.
And empty.
After we ended, I expected something—guilt, relief, sadness.
But all I got was space.
Too much of it.
The sex didn’t stop.
It became a routine.
Club. Drinks. A glance that lasted too long.
A kiss in a cab. A hotel bed. A body over mine.
Some were rough.
Some were sweet.
None of them mattered.
They touched my skin but never reached anything under it.
Sometimes I’d wake up in a stranger’s room and stare at the ceiling, wondering if he was awake at the same time.
Shaving. Buttoning up. Marching under the morning sun with a tired grin.
He was probably too busy to remember what my voice sounded like when I whispered “goodnight.”
I never blocked him.
His Instagram stayed where it always was—between accounts I didn’t care about and pages I muted long ago.
He didn’t post often.
But when he did, I always looked.
Book out selfies.
Photos in uniform, arm slung casually around his buddy.
Captions like “still surviving” or “ORD pls” with a laughing emoji.
His face was sharper now.
That NS glow-up they always talked about?
It hit him hard.
Jawline tighter. Shoulders broader. Eyes different—more alive.
He looked good.
Better than when he was with me.
I’d scroll, tap through his stories, rewatch them once or twice.
Then close the app.
No likes. No comments.
Just... watching.
Not because I missed him.
But because a part of me wanted to see what it looked like—
to be okay.
I stopped waiting.
Stopped explaining.
Stopped pretending that every guy I let inside me was filling a gap he left behind.
They weren’t.
They were just bodies.
Movements.
Noise.
But not one of them made me feel like he did—even when he barely tried.
One night, I lay in bed alone, hair still damp from a shower, neck covered in hickeys I didn’t remember getting.
I opened his profile again.
Tapped through his story.
He was in the bunk.
Smiling.
Holding a cup of milo.
Shirt damp from some outfield joke.
He looked happy.
Simple, ordinary happy.
I stared at that smile for a long time.
Then locked my phone.
Rolled over.
And closed my eyes.
The End.
He served.
She moved on.
But in quiet moments, under late-night lights,
she still watched him—like he was a memory that hadn’t learned how to fade.