You should have known.

The late nights when he wouldn’t answer. The way his phone was always flipped screen-down. The girls who smiled a little too knowingly when they saw you with him. But still, you told yourself it was nothing. That Rafe loved you. That he would never—

But you went through his phone anyway.

And there it was.

Messages that shattered every excuse you ever made for him. Names you recognized, words that weren’t meant for you, but should have been. Your hands shook as you scrolled, as the truth became undeniable.

“Why am I jealous if I’m yours?”

Your voice cracked when you asked him, but Rafe just sighed, like he was already exhausted by the conversation. His blue eyes darkened as he leaned back, arms crossed, a smirk ghosting his lips.

“Are we really doing this?” he scoffed. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Why do you make me insecure?” you whispered, the question more to yourself than to him.

He rolled his eyes. “You always do this,” he muttered, standing up, towering over you. “I told you, you don’t need to worry about that shit.”

But how could you not, when every time he told you not to worry, he always ended up hurting you?

You wanted to scream, to cry, to make him see what he was doing to you. But instead, all you could do was stare at him, feeling something inside you snap.

“Why am I not even your type?”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. And in that moment, you saw it—the flicker of amusement in his eyes, like he had won. Like this was just another game, and you had played right into his hands.

You felt sick.

Love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

So you turned around and walked away. Even when he called after you. Even when he laughed like you’d be back. Because for the first time, you weren’t falling for it.

You were done being gaslit. Done being his.