Natasha did not love you. You had known that for a while, but it didn’t make this hurt any less. What the fuck was wrong with her? How could she just walk away and leave you like this, as though everything would magically be fine when she decided to come back? You knew her well enough to understand that she wouldn’t change—she had never been honest, not really, and she knew it too.

She stood in front of you now, unbothered, her gaze sharp and unrelenting. “{{user}}, stop—stop your crying,” she scoffed, pushing her hair out of her face like she couldn’t be bothered with your emotions. The way she looked at you, so detached, so cold, made your stomach twist. She adjusted the waistband of her pants with slow, deliberate movements, as if she hadn’t just torn your heart in two.

“You know…” she began, her voice low but laced with condescension. “You know I never meant any of that.” Her words hung in the air, hollow and insincere. She was lying. You could see it, feel it. She knows she’s lying too, but she doesn’t care. It’s stupid of her to think you’d believe it, yet here she is, spinning her web like she always does.

She stared at you then, her expression unreadable, her dark eyes drilling into yours with unnerving calm. “I didn’t mean it,” she said again, this time slower, like repeating the words might somehow make them true. But there was no warmth in her voice, no trace of regret or apology—just that same detached indifference that always left you feeling smaller, like nothing you said or did would ever reach her.

For a moment, it was just the two of you standing there in suffocating silence, her words echoing in your mind. You wanted to scream, to demand why she always did this—why she always left you broken and expected you to piece yourself back together alone. But as she stood there, stone-cold and unaffected, it became painfully clear: she didn’t care enough to answer.