Chapter 2: Breaking the Cycle

When I left the library, it was already dark. At the entrance, I ran into Mariah, my best and only friend. We’d fallen out last semester—after I kept breaking up and getting back together with you, she coldly blocked and cut me off. The streetlights glowed yellow, and the air buzzed with the chatter of students heading home.

I saw her standing under the streetlight, arms crossed, waiting for her friends. I hesitated, wanting to disappear, but she caught my eye and called out, "Savannah!" Her voice was clear, cutting through the night.

I knew she was disappointed in me and didn’t want to see me, so I lowered my head to slip past. But she called out to me again. I turned; she stood at the library door, pretending to be casual, but I could hear the concern in her voice. She asked, "You okay?" Her eyes searched my face, her lips pressed tight.

Her voice was softer than I expected. She tried to play it cool, but her eyes were searching my face for cracks. I wanted to lie, but my throat tightened, my shoulders slumping.

I didn’t know why she asked, but before I could answer, she continued, "I heard you broke up with Lucas. There’s a bet in Architecture Class 1 about when you’ll go back to licking Lucas’s boots again." Her words stung, but her tone was gentle, almost protective.

I forced a smile, the kind that feels like it’s painted on. The campus rumor mill never sleeps. I could almost hear the snickers from the group chat, the emojis and GIFs flying in the GroupMe.

It wasn’t a surprise. I forced a smile, and that softened her. She sighed, almost pleading, "Savannah, let me meddle, just this once. Everyone’s laughing at you. Promise me, don’t go back." She fidgeted with her phone, her voice low, almost begging.

She stepped closer, her voice low, almost begging. I saw the worry in her eyes, the loyalty that never quite faded. "Promise me," she whispered, her hand reaching out for mine.

You and Autumn are campus celebrities. Our love triangle was gossip fodder on the campus app—everyone was curious if a humble bootlicker could tame you. My humble devotion was public knowledge, so even disappointed, Mariah still kindly reminded me: everyone’s laughing at you. The sting of her words mixed with the comfort of her concern.

I felt the sting of her words, but also the comfort. Even when I was a mess, Mariah couldn’t help but look out for me. I blinked away tears, nodded, and watched her disappear into the crowd, her silhouette fading in the night.

Facing her pleading gaze, I swallowed my tears and nodded. She went into the library with her friends, her laughter echoing down the hallway.

I watched her go, wishing I could rewind everything, start fresh. I felt lighter, just a little, knowing someone still cared. My chest loosened, the ache easing for the first time.

On the way back, I ran into you. The campus was quiet, the smell of grass and distant music drifting through the air.

It was the 22nd day after our breakup. You and a few friends were standing under the Silver Hall building, probably waiting for someone. The midsummer evening sunlight filtered through the maple trees, and you stood tall in the crowd, smiling deeply. Your friend noticed me first, his expression a little odd, his gaze ambiguous as he looked me over, then nudged your shoulder, signaling you to look. The moment stretched, heavy with expectation.

The sun painted everything gold, and for a second, it felt like a movie scene. Your friends elbowed each other, eyes darting between us, waiting for drama. The laughter was sharp, bouncing off the brick walls.

The atmosphere was awkward for a moment. Your friends all looked like they were enjoying the drama; even your smile faded as you stared at me, expressionless, from a short distance. I walked past coldly, not looking back. After a few steps, I heard your friend shout behind me, followed by laughter. My cheeks burned, the straps of my backpack digging into my shoulders.

Their laughter echoed, sharp and mean. I kept my head high, pretending I didn’t care, even as my cheeks burned. The sound followed me all the way down the path.

They were laughing at me, I knew, probably thinking this was another run-in I’d orchestrated. I clenched my fists, jaw tight, refusing to look back.

It was like they expected me to turn around, beg for attention, play my part. But I kept walking, determined not to give them the satisfaction. My steps were quick, purposeful.

But this time you all underestimated me. Lucas, I really mean to give up on you for good. I whispered it to myself, a quiet promise, my breath coming out in shaky bursts.

Back at the dorm, I just sat there, dazed. After the breakup, I found it hard to focus on anything, so I forced myself to scroll through Instagram to distract myself. The glow of my phone screen lit up the posters on my wall, the hum of the air conditioner filling the silence.

The glow of my phone was comforting, even as the notifications felt like tiny jabs. I scrolled mindlessly, hoping for something to numb the ache, the soft buzz of students outside my window grounding me.

Your dorm’s third roommate had just posted a new Story. Back when I dated you, I had all your friends’ contacts to get along with them. The post was a photo of your dinner party, Autumn leaning her head on your shoulder, both of you smiling deeply. The caption read: "The best is always worth waiting for. Congrats to Lucas for getting what he wanted, broken mirror restored." There were filters and hashtags—#couplegoals, #finally.

I stared at the picture, heart sinking. It was like everyone knew the ending before I did. The words "broken mirror restored" felt like a slap, the bright colors mocking my pain.

If Autumn is the best worth waiting for, then I was the most stubborn obstacle on your road to reunion. I laughed, bitter and tired, the taste of defeat sharp on my tongue.

I laughed, bitter and tired. At least now the story made sense. I wasn’t the hero—I was just the hurdle, a footnote in your happy ending.

But because of that Story, I felt much better. The truth, even when it hurts, is better than confusion. I finally felt a little lighter, my chest less tight.

You know, feelings wear down bit by bit. Heartbreak isn’t a big explosion—it’s slow, steady, like water wearing away stone. Every day, a little more of the pain faded, until I could breathe again.

I know how others see me, loving someone without dignity. The modern independent woman should be a queen above all, but I really suffered. Just from how you and Autumn treated me, I saw clearly you weren’t a good person. The hum of my phone was a reminder—I was finally letting go.

I used to read those self-help posts—Brene Brown, Esther Perel, even "Call Her Daddy" podcasts—"Never chase a man, be the prize." I tried to believe it, but my heart wasn’t ready. Now, I finally see what everyone else did, the advice echoing in my mind.

But even when I was ready to give up on you completely, the pain was suffocating. Some nights I’d lie awake, clutching my pillow, the sound of notifications buzzing, wishing I could fast-forward through the hurt.

Mariah comforted me before, saying this is normal. She said loving someone doesn’t stop just because of heartbreak. Love is repetitive—tonight you figure it out, tomorrow you’re stuck again. As long as I don’t go back, I’ll get through the hardest part. She’d send me SpongeBob memes, TikTok trends, late-night texts: "One day at a time. Don’t judge yourself for slipping."

But giving you up is like quitting an addiction. In the end, maybe she was tired of my endless crying and relapses. I remember the last thing she said to me: "Savannah, if you don’t love yourself, no one will love you. Everyone looks down on you because you’re too cheap, not worthy of love." The disappointment and frustration in her eyes was so obvious, but I still ran toward you without hesitation, my legs restless, insomnia and headaches haunting my nights.

I replayed her words over and over, hoping they’d stick. But old habits die hard. I was addicted to the hope, even when it hurt, my body aching for something to fill the void.

Because I’d invested too much in you. Every gift, every hour spent waiting, every tear shed—I didn’t want to believe it was all for nothing. My hands shook, my breath shallow, but I kept hoping.

But it’s okay, this time I thought of a new approach. I turned off my phone, took out my notebook—covered in stickers, doodles, torn pages. It’s something I learned from writing papers: every argument needs evidence. Just like I must not go back to you, I need proof. I want to review every moment I lost hope in you, and call it a Bootlicker’s Enlightenment Guide—the great awakening.

I scribbled down every memory, every disappointment, determined to document my own heartbreak. Maybe if I saw it all on paper, I’d finally let go, my fingers smudged with ink.

This is a long letter you’ll never receive, containing all the moments a girl lost hope in you. I wrote it for myself, as closure. Maybe someday, I’ll laugh at all this.