CONTENT WARNING

This story contains excessive use of profanity and foul language.

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“I’m fucking done with you!” 

Those were the last words I screamed into the phone before blocking him from everything two weeks ago. I blocked his phone number, I blocked his countless burner email accounts he was using to contact me after our previous break-ups, I blocked every social media site I had him on. I even blocked all of his friends, just in case. 

This time, it was over. It was over, over. I never wanted to see his face again, never wanted to hear his voice again, I never wanted to hear him mentioned by anyone ever again. He was a stain, a smeared shit-brown stain on the already fucked-up tapestry that is my life right now. I think I can count all the times he made me happy on one fucking hand, and we were on and off for five years. I don’t need to deal with that anymore. 

What did he do this time? 

Better question is what didn’t he do? 

He insulted my family. Called them a bunch of stuck-up, pompous fucks who only get by on generational wealth. Yeah? Well, it’s not my fault you’re stuck working as a bartender earning peanuts because you’re not bothered to get off your fucking ass and improve yourself! 

He stood me up. Again. For the fifth time this month. He said he was ‘busy,’ and that he’s ‘sorry,’ but somehow, he wasn’t too busy to go out clubbing with his fucking friends every God damn weekend! 

He flirted with one of his female friends, right in front of my face. I was right there, you fucking shithead. You don’t think your own girlfriend would be upset if you were telling some other random bitch how good her fucking tits look in that stupid, tiny little slutty crop top she was wearing? 

He insulted me! Constantly! He called me a slut because he found out one of my friends is a guy. He called me a control freak because I want him to let me know whenever he’s going out. He called me an attention-seeking narcissist because I posted a bikini photo on my Instagram. Not to mention all the times he called me other unflattering names. 

Those aren’t even the worst things he’s done! 

The worst thing is that he never even tried to contact me since the break-up. What, I’m not good enough for you anymore? You out there fucking someone else already? Some fucking stripper bitch from that strip joint I caught you at before our last break-up? Too high on fucking weed to grab another burner phone? You’ve got thirty-seven already, I fucking counted! What’s one more, huh? 

My phone vibrates and I shoot my arm out to grab it so quickly that my hand slams into the lamp on my bedside table, knocking it to the ground. 

“Fuck,” I whisper, resolving to pick the lamp up later. I unlock my phone and let out an annoyed sigh. It’s the delivery guy. My food’s here. 

I groan, getting up off my bed and putting my slippers on, strolling towards the front door. I put my eye against the peephole and watch the delivery driver walk back down the driveway, having dropped my food at the entrance. When he gets back in his car, I finally open the door, snatching the bag of food as fast as I can and slamming the door behind me. 

I look down and open the bag, making sure everything is there. I make a tsk sound with my mouth. They didn’t forget anything. I was looking forward to giving them a scathing review and getting a full refund.  

I notice that there are a few letters sitting on the ground from this morning’s mail run. I reach down, going through them. Bills, some advertisements, fridge magnets, and one unmarked envelope. I frown, turning it over in my hand. 

“Lorelei,” it reads. My heart jumps in my chest – it’s his handwriting. I drop my bag of food and ravenously tear the envelope open, accidentally ripping the sheet of paper inside a little. I open it and immediately scoff. 

This fucking asshole didn’t even bother to handwrite his apology letter. He printed it off, the lazy bastard.  

As I continue reading, the frown on my face just gets deeper and deeper. 

There are words and phrases in here that he’s never used before. I don’t even think he’d understand them, or at the very least, not be able to spell them correctly.  

‘Aforementioned?’ 

‘Toxic behavioural patterns?’ 

Fucking, ‘accountability framework?’ 

Did this asshat use AI to write his fucking apology letter to me? 

I clench my jaw, breathing heavily through my nose. 

Then I shrug and toss the paper to the side. 

It’s probably the best he can manage. He’s pretty busy and always stressed, so I can forgive all the stuff he did before. Besides, he’s kinda hot. 

I take my phone out and unblock his number, sending a quick text. 

“Hey. U wanna meet?”