Chapter 1

Melanie

I stare at the framed photo in my hands, my fingers tracing the edges of what used to be our happiest moment. Nathaniel's arm wrapped around my waist at the beach last summer, both of us smiling. It was such a good day. The memory twists like a knife in my gut. I drop the frame into the cardboard box labeled "Donations."

"You don't deserve any more space in my life," I mutter, moving to the bookshelf where more remnants of our relationship mock me.

The apartment feels hollow as I work through each room. Books he gave me. The coffee maker we bought together. That stupid vintage record player he insisted would make our Sunday mornings more romantic. All of it has to go.

My phone buzzes with a text from the women's shelter where I volunteer. They need extra hands for tomorrow's group session. My fingers hover over the screen before I type, "Count me in."

At least there, I make a difference. Those women trust me with their stories, their fears. If only I'd recognized the signs in my own relationship sooner. The constant texting, checking up on me, the way he'd twist situations to make me doubt myself.

The bathroom cabinet reveals his forgotten aftershave. The scent hits me, and suddenly I'm back in that moment - walking in on him with her in our bed. The girl that I was always worried about. The same one he swore was "just a friend."

Now, I'm going through my apartment, getting rid of everything that was once tainted by Nathaniel. Including that damn bed. I'm sleeping on an air mattress in the meantime, which is a thousand times better.

"Damn you." I hurl the bottle into the trash, watching it shatter. Glass fragments scatter like the pieces of my heart.

My career counseling session notes sit on the kitchen counter, outlining my goals for the coming months. I'd put them aside, lost in Nathaniel's promises of our future together. Now they represent something else - my freedom, my chance to rebuild.

"No more putting my dreams on hold." I grab the notes and pin them to the fridge. The domestic violence hotline number I'd been too scared to call during our fights stares back at me from the corner of the paper.

Moving through the living room, I pause at the wall where our photos once hung. The empty nail holes remind me of all the times I covered up his betrayals with excuses. No more. These walls will tell my story now, not ours.

The doorbell chimes just as I'm sealing the last box of stuff. My phone lights up simultaneously with Hannah's name flashing across the screen.

"Perfect timing, I was about to—"

"Don't you dare say you're staying in again." Hannah's voice bursts through the speaker. "We're staging an intervention."

I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder, dragging the box toward the growing pile by the door. "I'm actually being productive. Look, can I get you on video? I want you to see all these boxes—"

"Which will still be there tomorrow. When's the last time you went out? Had fun? Remembered what it feels like to smile?"

"I smile." The defense sounds weak even to my ears.

"At those sad Lifetime movies you've been binging? That doesn't count." Keys jingle in the background of her call. "The girls and I are hitting up Murphy's tonight. No excuses."

"Hannah—"

"Mel, you can't hide forever. It's been three weeks."

I sink onto the couch, surveying the half-empty apartment. The spaces where Nathaniel's things used to be mock me with their emptiness. "I'm not hiding."

"Then prove it. Come out with us. One drink. If you're miserable after thirty minutes, I'll personally drive you home."

Running my hand over my face, I exhale. Maybe she's right. These walls have become both sanctuary and prison lately. "Promise?"

"Cross my heart. And wear that new dress you bought last month. The green one that makes your—"

"Okay, okay." A laugh escapes me, surprising us both. It feels foreign, like I've forgotten how to do it properly. "What time?"

"Nine. And Mel?" Her voice softens. "It's time to remind yourself that life goes on. That asshole doesn't get to steal your joy."

The truth in her words hits home. I glance at the donation boxes stacked by the door, at all the memories I'm finally letting go. The silver picture frames, the matching coffee mugs, even that stupid 'Live Laugh Love' sign he insisted on hanging in our kitchen. Fuck him and fuck that sign. "You know what? You're right. One drink."

"That's my girl. We're getting you back out there."

"I said one drink, not 'back out there.'" I twist a loose strand of hair around my finger, already second-guessing my decision.

"Whatever you say, honey. But just know, half the guys at Murphy's have been asking about you. See you at nine!"

I end the call and stare at my closet. The green dress Hannah mentioned hangs at the front, tags still attached. I'd bought it during a post-breakup shopping spree, convinced retail therapy would fix everything.

My fingers brush against the silky material. It's gorgeous, but also screams "trying too hard." Tonight isn't about impressing anyone. It's about feeling like myself again.

Pushing hangers aside, I spot my favorite blue wrap dress. The fabric drapes perfectly, highlighting my curves without making me feel exposed. Plus, the deep navy shade complements my skin tone in a way that always boosts my confidence.

"Much better." I slip it on, adjusting the wrap to sit just right.

At my vanity, I section my hair, working methodically with my flat iron to smooth each curl into soft waves. The familiar routine soothes my nerves. I pin one side back with a delicate gold clip – a birthday gift from a friend.

"Okay, Mel. Let's make this count." I lean closer to the mirror, applying foundation with practiced strokes. A touch of gold eyeshadow makes my brown eyes pop. I line my lips with a nude pencil before adding a swipe of glossy mauve lipstick.

The woman in the mirror looks more like me than I've seen in weeks. Not Nathaniel's ex. Not the girl who got cheated on. Just Melanie, ready to reclaim her Friday night.

I step back, smoothing my dress. The outfit feels right – comfortable but put-together. Like armor, but the kind that lets me breathe. The black fabric hugs my curves perfectly, and the subtle shimmer catches the light just enough to make a statement without screaming for attention.

My phone buzzes again. An Instagram notification lights up the screen: "Nathaniel Jones shared a new post." I'd forgotten to block him everywhere after our break-up, too focused on just getting through each day.

My stomach lurches. The preview shows him at some rooftop bar, drink in hand, that signature crooked grin plastered across his face. The caption reads: "Living my best life." He's wearing the blue button-down I bought him for his birthday, and there's a glimpse of someone's manicured hand on his shoulder.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I grab my phone, blood boiling. The photo was taken at Skyline - our spot. Where we had our first date. Where he first told me he loved me, under the stars with the city lights twinkling below us like a blanket of diamonds. That lying, manipulative asshole had the nerve to take someone else there.

I click through to his profile. More recent posts pop up - him at parties, concerts, restaurants. All the places we used to go together, now rebranded as his solo adventures. No sign of guilt. No acknowledgment of what he did.

"Piece of shit." My fingers shake as I navigate to his profile settings. The block button beckons like a lifeline. One tap and his digital presence vanishes from my feed.

But it's not enough. I open Facebook - there he is. Block. Twitter? Gone. LinkedIn? Deleted. Each platform feels like ripping off another band-aid, stinging but necessary.

My thumb hovers over the photo archive on my phone. Hundreds of memories stored in neat little folders. "Nathaniel and Me." "Beach Trip 2022." "Our Anniversary."

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

The loading bar crawls across my screen as years of photos disappear into digital oblivion. With each folder that vanishes, my chest feels lighter. It's like watching poison being drained from my system, one megabyte at a time.

I scroll through my contact list, finding the notes I'd saved with his favorite restaurants, movies, the little things I thought mattered. His parents' address. The date we first met. All of it has to go. Years of carefully collected details about his life, archived like I was some kind of relationship librarian. What a waste of storage space.

"Fuck off. Fuck you. Get the fuck out of my life," I mutter, watching the last traces of him disappear from my digital life. "Not in my phone, not in my head, not anywhere."

My fingers tremble with rage as I clear the final cache, making sure not even a thumbnail remains to haunt my gallery. The screen flashes 'Storage Cleared' and I let out a deep breath, slouching in my chair.

From here on out, I'm making changes in my life. Big ones. Cutting Nathaniel off is the best thing that could've happened to me. No more putting up with his half-assed excuses or dealing with his daddy issues. No more pretending I don't see the way he checks out other women when we're together.

Tonight, my friends will make everything feel better. I know they will. They've been blowing up my phone all day with promises of a bar trip, ice cream afterwards—a proper girls' night out. Maybe they'll even help me write that dating profile I've been too scared to make. It's time to show the world that Melanie Hawkins is done playing small.