TREAT ME RIGHT

James had thought leaving her would be the hardest part.

For weeks, he had prepared himself. He rehearsed the words during sleepless nights, whispering them into the darkness as if practice would make them hurt less. He imagined her face falling, the confusion in her eyes, the tears that would follow. Walking away felt like it would tear him apart.

He had been wrong.

Because leaving her was nothing compared to this.

She had cheated on him.

With Clinton.

His best friend.

The words replayed in his mind like a cruel echo. Not just a betrayal. Not just a mistake. It was a deliberate choice - made behind his back, beneath his trust, inside the safety of everything he thought was sacred.

His world didn't crack.

It collapsed.

James sat on the edge of his bed, his phone clutched so tightly in his hand that his knuckles turned white. The screen glowed in the dim room, illuminating messages he wished he had never seen. Proof. Cold. Clear. Undeniable.

Every word on that screen felt like a blade carving through him.

"How could she...?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "How could they?"

Anger surged first. Hot. Violent. It tightened his chest until breathing felt like inhaling broken glass. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

Then came the pain.

Quieter.

Deeper.

More dangerous.

It spread slowly through him, hollowing him out from the inside, leaving nothing but emptiness where love had once lived.

Clinton.

Of all people.

James closed his eyes, but it didn't help. The memories attacked anyway - late-night conversations, shared dreams, inside jokes. He remembered defending Clinton in arguments, backing him when others doubted him. He remembered introducing him to her.

He had brought the snake into his own garden.

A sharp ache pierced his chest, and he gasped, pressing a trembling hand against his heart. His body reacted before his mind could catch up. His hands shook. His vision blurred.

Every heartbeat seemed to chant the same word: Betrayed. Betrayed. Betrayed.

He thought he knew people.

He thought loyalty meant something.

In one night, everything shifted beneath him, and he was left grasping at air.

He remembered the way she used to smile when he came home. The way her eyes lit up like he was the only person in the world. The way she whispered "I love you" with such certainty that he had believed it was unbreakable.

Now those memories felt poisoned.

Each one twisted, sharp and mocking.

James leaned back slowly, letting his body fall against the mattress. The sheets felt cold beneath him, unfamiliar - like the room itself no longer belonged to him. Nausea churned in his stomach.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to cry.

He wanted to punch something until his knuckles bled.

But he did none of it.

Instead, he lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling as though the universe had shifted and forgotten to inform him.

"Why didn't I see it?" he muttered into the empty room. "Was I really that blind?"

The phone vibrated in his hand.

He flinched as if it had burned him.

Another message.

His stomach dropped instantly. Was it more proof? More humiliation? Another reminder that while he was drowning, they were laughing somewhere?

He stared at the screen, frozen between fear and curiosity. Part of him wanted to throw the phone across the room, to smash it and pretend ignorance was still possible.

But he couldn't.

Slowly, he tapped the screen.

The message wasn't from her.

It wasn't from Clinton.

It was from someone else.

Someone who had known.

The room suddenly felt smaller. The walls seemed closer. The air heavier.

He wasn't just betrayed.

People had watched it happen.

A knock sounded at his door earlier that evening - he barely remembered opening it. Ben had walked in without needing to be invited. One look at James's face had told him everything.

Now Ben sat across from him, elbows resting on his knees, steady and silent.

An anchor in the middle of a storm.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't awkward. It was thick. Heavy. Necessary.

Sometimes pain doesn't need commentary.

Finally, Ben exhaled slowly.

"James... she's not worth it."

James let out a hollow laugh. It didn't even sound like his own voice.

"Not worth it?" he repeated bitterly. "I was planning my future with her."

His throat tightened, but he forced the words out.

"I thought she was it. I thought we were real."

Ben's gaze didn't waver. "You were real. That's the difference."

The statement hit harder than expected.

James looked away.

"Life's too short to waste on people who don't value you," Ben continued quietly. "This doesn't define you. Their choices don't erase who you are."

James wanted to believe that.

God, he wanted to.

But belief felt like a language he no longer understood.

He replayed every moment in his mind, searching for signs he had missed. Was there a hesitation in her voice? A secret smile? A message deleted too quickly?

Had Clinton ever looked at her differently?

The apartment was silent except for the ticking clock on the wall. Each second felt louder than the last.

Betrayal doesn't explode and disappear.

It lingers.

It burrows.

It settles into the quiet spaces of your heart and builds a home there.

James ran a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily.

"I don't know who to trust anymore," he admitted.

Ben's voice softened. "Trust yourself first."

The words hung between them.

Trust himself.

He had ignored instincts before. Hadn't he? There were moments when something felt slightly off, but he had brushed it aside, choosing love over doubt.

Love over caution.

And this was the result.

But beneath the devastation, beneath the humiliation and anger, something else flickered.

Not hope.

Not yet.

Strength.

Small. Weak. But present.

He was still here.

Still breathing.

Still standing.

They had broken his trust - not his existence.

James sat up slowly, wiping his face with the back of his hand. His reflection stared back at him in the dark screen of his phone. He looked tired. Older somehow.

But he was not destroyed.

Not completely.

"I won't let this ruin me," he said quietly, more to himself than to Ben.

Ben nodded once. "That's the spirit."

James inhaled deeply, steadying himself.

He didn't know what healing would look like. He didn't know how long it would take before the memories stopped cutting. He didn't know if he would ever love that fearlessly again.

But he knew one thing.

He deserved better.

His phone buzzed again.

This time, the sound didn't just startle him - it sent a chill down his spine.

He glanced at the screen.

Unknown number.

His pulse quickened.

Ben noticed the shift immediately. "Who is it?"

James swallowed hard.

"I don't know."

The message preview appeared:

If you think that's the whole story... you're wrong.

The air in the room changed.

James's heart began to pound, not just with pain - but with something else.

Fear.

Or was it anticipation?

His thumb hovered over the screen.

Because suddenly, this wasn't just about cheating.

It wasn't just about betrayal.

It was about something bigger.

Something hidden.

And as James opened the message, he realized the worst night of his life might only be the beginning.

James trudged behind Ben, hands buried deep in his pockets, shoulders slouched, gaze fixed on the smooth, polished floor of the mall. Each step felt heavy, weighted with exhaustion, with the kind of silence that followed heartbreak. He didn't feel like moving, talking, or existing outside of himself. Yet maybe-just maybe-the hum of life around him was better than being trapped with his thoughts. Anything that didn't include Rose's ghostly presence, replaying every mistake, every argument, every "what if" that had tormented him since she'd left.

The mall was alive in a way James hadn't noticed in months. Music flowed from hidden speakers, melting into laughter, chatter, and the rhythmic tapping of feet against tile. The scent of fried food, sweet pastries, and sugary drinks wrapped around him, making the air feel dense and thick with human presence. Groups of friends laughed loudly as they passed, couples held hands tightly, and children darted ahead of their parents, their squeals and shouts echoing in the cavernous space. James felt distant from it all, like a ghost drifting at the edges of a vivid painting. And for once, he didn't mind.

Ben strode ahead confidently, his grin sharp and effortless. He waved at girls he didn't really know, exchanged quick nods with random acquaintances, acting as though every corner of the mall belonged to him. James lagged behind, the space between them growing, feeling almost comforting. He had faded into the background so long that invisibility felt like relief rather than neglect.

And then, like a sunbeam breaking through storm clouds, she appeared.

She stood at the ice-cream counter, leaning slightly to one side, her gaze intent on the menu as if each flavor held the secrets to life itself. Strawberry. Vanilla.

Her braids cascaded over her shoulders, neat yet relaxed enough to sway gently when she tilted her head. There was an ease about her that radiated warmth. Her smile, when it came, wasn't forced, loud, or performative. It was soft, effortless, and genuine, the kind that could make the harshest of days feel suddenly lighter.

James stopped mid-step. The noise of the mall blurred into a muted hum, the chatter fading, the music dissolving. All that remained was her-calm, radiant, unexpectedly magnetic.

Ben's whisper pulled him back, sharp and teasing. "Bro... you're staring."

James didn't respond. His brain had short-circuited, caught in a loop of disbelief and fascination.

Ben smirked knowingly. "Go talk to her. Now."

Before James could protest, she turned. Their eyes locked.

"Oh-sorry," she said with a laugh that was light and easy, not mocking. "Do you know which one's better?"

James blinked, mind scrambling. He hadn't rehearsed this. He hadn't prepared for a moment that felt this... effortless, this real. "Uh... I like vanilla," he managed, voice cracking slightly.

Her smile widened. "Perfect. Then I'll take strawberry."

James frowned slightly. "Why?"

She tilted her head, playful. "Because someone has to balance you out."

A laugh escaped him, light, unrestrained, from somewhere deep inside where laughter hadn't lived for months. The heaviness in his chest, the dull ache of absence, softened slightly.

"I'm Benita," she said, lifting her cup in a quiet greeting.

"James," he replied, the sound of his name tasting different, lighter, as if he'd remembered it himself for the first time.

Ben, pretending to check his phone but clearly eavesdropping, stepped forward. "Great! Since we're all friends now, let's eat together," he said, grabbing a tray.

James opened his mouth to protest, but Benita shrugged with a soft laugh. "Why not? Ice-cream tastes better with company."

They found a small table near the edge of the food court, its distance giving them a private bubble amidst the chaotic symphony of mall life. For the first time, James felt the walls around him loosen. The crowd was still there, but it felt distant, irrelevant-background noise rather than the oppressive weight it had been for months.

They talked. Really talked. And something extraordinary happened. James laughed, not the careful, hollow laughter he used to mask emotions, not the clipped responses he relied on to avoid attention. This was raw, genuine, startling even to himself.

Benita's humor was quiet but piercing in its sincerity. She teased him gently for choosing "boring vanilla," recounted small, funny anecdotes about school, and laughed at herself when she tripped over her words. Her questions weren't trivial; they lingered, thoughtful, making him pause before answering, making him feel seen without pressure.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Rose's shadow receded. He wasn't replaying old conversations in his head. He wasn't wondering what he had done wrong. He wasn't carrying the gnawing weight of grief, anger, or exhaustion. He was simply here. Present. Alive.

They shared fries, stealthily stole bites from each other's plates, and wandered through the mall in a comfortable rhythm. Ben chimed in occasionally, but mostly he observed, satisfied, letting the moment unfold naturally.

Benita walked beside him without pushing or hurrying, matching his pace effortlessly. She listened when he spoke softly, laughed when he joked, and never made him feel inadequate or awkward. Every gesture, every glance, every subtle smile reminded him of something he had forgotten: life could still feel light, even after pain.

At one point, she stopped and looked at him directly. "You're quiet," she said gently. "But not in a sad way. More like... you've been through something."

James swallowed, the truth heavy in his throat. He wanted to explain, wanted to untangle the fragile knot inside him, but the words refused to form. So he stayed silent, the unspoken weight suspended between them.

She didn't press. Only smiled-softly, with understanding. "Well," she said, "whenever you're ready to talk, I'll listen."

Those words, so simple, so unassuming, followed him long after they parted ways.

When the day ended, they stood near the mall's exit. People rushed past in a blur of motion, but the moment between them felt suspended, timeless.

Benita reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his hand. "I hope I see you again, James," she said, eyes warm and sincere. "You seem like someone who deserves to be treated right."

Then she turned, slipping back into the crowd, leaving him standing still, the weight of her words settling softly over him.

For the first time in months, James felt something unfamiliar, something tender and electric. His heart didn't ache. It didn't throb with absence or longing.

It felt full.

Full of hope.

A spark that promised new beginnings, the chance for laughter, the possibility of trust. A spark that might just be enough to pull him from the shadow of yesterday.

And as he walked out of the mall, Ben's voice calling after him fading into the distance, James realized something he hadn't allowed himself to admit: maybe life could be more than pain. Maybe it could be light again.

Maybe... it already was.

James's phone buzzed on the nightstand, and his chest tightened even before he looked.

ROSE: James... you should be sorry.

His fingers froze over the screen, hovering as if the device itself were a trap. Every instinct screamed at him-reply, explain, beg for understanding-but another, quieter voice-the one that had begun to grow lately-urged restraint. Hesitation, once foreign, now pulsed through him like a heartbeat he couldn't ignore.

There was a time when James would have responded instantly. A time when Rose's name lighting up his screen made his chest leap with hope instead of clenching with dread. Back then, he would have typed apology after apology, even when he didn't know what he was apologizing for. Loving her had trained him to shoulder blame for the sake of peace, even at the cost of his own heart.

But things were different now.

The silence between him and the phone felt heavy, almost alive, like a boundary he dared not cross. His thumb trembled over the keyboard before he finally exhaled, locked the screen, and let the phone fall onto the bed beside him.

Yesterday at the mall played like a vivid film behind his eyelids. Ben had dragged him along, insisting he needed a break from Rose's shadow. James hadn't expected to meet anyone. But then, out of the chaos, she had appeared-Benita.

Her laugh had cut through the noise like music, effortless and warm. Her eyes had sparkled as she smiled at him, a light so unexpected it made his chest ache and pulse with a sensation he had thought long buried.

The mall itself seemed alive in memory, every detail etched sharply in his mind. Crowds surged around them, the murmur of footsteps and chatter blending with the distant beat of music from unseen speakers. James remembered feeling out of place, tense in his own skin, weighed down by invisible chains. Ben had babbled endlessly about sneakers, discounts, trivialities, and James had barely heard him. And then Benita-laughing, apologizing, her words spilling freely-had almost collided with him at the ice-cream stand.

Something inside him had shifted in that instant.

He remembered the way it had felt easy to talk to her, like sliding into sunlight after months underground. Their conversation had flowed naturally, without effort, without pretense. And yet... Rose's image flashed repeatedly in his mind, sharp and uninvited. The betrayal still stung. Collins. One of their friends. One of the people James had trusted without question. One of the people who had taken pieces of him he didn't know he could lose.

He hated how much he still loved her.

Love didn't vanish just because it was betrayed. It lingered, stubborn and aching, weaving through the quiet moments, refusing to leave even when the reality had changed irreversibly. Rose hadn't simply been a girlfriend. She had been a sanctuary, a safe place, a future James had imagined for himself. Letting go felt like erasing a fragment of his own soul.

Ben noticed the tension tightening James's shoulders and the shadow darkening his expression. "Bro, you okay?"

James shook his head. "It's Rose... she's texting again. She says I should be sorry."

Saying it aloud made the absurdity sting. Sorry? For what? For feeling hurt? For finally stepping back? For not pretending everything was fine when it wasn't?

Ben shook his head sharply, eyes firm. "Sorry? For what, man? She cheated. You don't owe her a thing. And remember-you met someone yesterday, someone who actually makes you... alive again."

James's stomach clenched, heart thumping at the memory of Benita. The curve of her smile. The sparkle in her eyes. The way she had laughed at his stupid jokes without reservation. The way she had shared her ice-cream with a casual generosity that made him feel... seen. Real. Alive.

Alive.

The word reverberated in his mind, startling him with its honesty. Weeks of pretending, of numbing himself against the pain, had drained him. Benita had reminded him that life could feel light again, that warmth didn't have to be a trap.

"I... I told her I'm not in a relationship," James muttered, voice low. "But I still... I still love her. I just can't..." His words faltered. He couldn't finish. He couldn't articulate the truth that hovered uncomfortably at the edge of consciousness: he couldn't trust her anymore. He was tired of the relentless ache. He deserved better, but the guilt clung stubbornly.

Ben's hand landed on his shoulder, firm and grounding. "Then let her go. Seriously, man. She's not your future. She's a memory. Benita... she's real. She's here. And she likes you. She wants you to be happy, bro."

The words hit him like a revelation. Memory. Future. The contrast was cruel, frightening, and necessary.

James's chest felt tight, caught between past and possibility. He still loved Rose-that was undeniable. But Benita... Benita had drawn him out of the shadows without even trying. She had made him laugh, made him feel lightness he hadn't known in weeks. Painful, heartbreaking Rose was the past. Benita was here, tangible and patient, offering something he thought he had lost: hope.

Slowly, he picked up his phone and typed, though the words remained unsent:

Rose... I still love you. But I can't stay where I'm not wanted. I hope you find what you're looking for.

He stared at the screen, each word heavy, final, like a door gently closing on a chapter that had defined him for too long.

Another buzz.

ROSE: So you're just going to ignore me now?

James's chest tightened, but this time, panic didn't follow. Instead, he turned the phone face down, exhaling slowly, deliberately. He let the night wash over him, the quiet hum of the city beyond his window offering a rhythm that seemed to say: life moves forward, whether you're ready or not.

He rose from the bed and walked to the window, letting his fingers trail along the cool glass as he gazed out at the fading evening sky. The sun had disappeared, leaving streaks of indigo and amber, and somewhere far below, the world continued-people laughing, walking, living. Life didn't halt because hearts ached.

Thinking of Benita, her laughter, her smile, he realized it didn't feel impossible to move forward. Not entirely. Not completely. There was room for something new, something tentative, something fragile and bright.

He could feel the beginnings of a shift in himself. A small but undeniable stirring-a spark that whispered of beginnings, of chances, of moments where life could be lighter than grief.

For the first time since everything fell apart, James didn't feel like he was standing at the end of something.

It felt... like the beginning.

And as the city lights blinked on one by one, like stars trapped in glass, he knew he had a choice: to linger in the shadows of the past, or step forward into the light of what might be.

Somewhere between memory and hope, he decided.

The future, for the first time in months, felt like something he could reach for.