Not So Bad After All (BWWM)(EDITING)

Chapter Seventeen

Not So Bad After All
Book One
Chapter Seventeen
Rose's Pov
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My phone vibrated again, its screen lighting up with Ryan's name flashing for the hundredth time today. I sighed, tossing it aside, ignoring it just like I had the previous ninety-nine times. The damn thing hit the couch with a soft thud as I refocused on my studies.

It had been a week since that whole couples' night debacle, and I hadn't spoken to him since. I wish I could say I missed him, but what exactly would I miss? The constant sadness? The lies? The disrespect? The feeling that I was always an afterthought? No thanks.

The truth is, I'm more upset about how everything ended, and the fact that he couldn't love me the way I needed. I'm sad that I don't have anyone to call my own anymore, but honestly, I'm not even sure I ever really did. I'm mourning the friendship that was lost when our relationship crumbled, but if I'm being honest with myself, staying with him would have only meant more heartache. I wasn't willing to hurt myself like that anymore.

I've been avoiding him at school, and it's surprisingly easy. I skip my locker and avoid the lunchroom. At the end of the day, I leave through the side doors by the library. I just don't have the energy to deal with him and the drama he seems to thrive on these days.

He hasn't shown up at my job yet, probably because he's forgotten where I work. He wouldn't dare show up at my house, either—he's not suicidal. At least, I hope he's not.

I tried to distract myself by diving back into my book. "I had reached the summit, as I had dreamed I would in the dark years of slavery, and there, beyond the sphere of human vision, we met and embraced. We would never be alone again."

But just as I was getting absorbed in the pages of All But My Life by Gerda Weissmann Klein, I heard shouting coming from outside. This neighborhood is usually quiet, peaceful even—nothing ever really happens here. So naturally, the argument outside caught my attention. My ears perked up, and I instantly went on high alert. Who the hell was arguing out there?

I jumped off the couch and rushed to the window by the front door. I couldn't see anything from this angle, but the voices were getting louder. There was a lot of cursing and yelling—definitely not the kind of noise this neighborhood usually invites.

Being the nosy person that I am, I couldn't resist. I opened the door just a crack and peeked my head out, hoping to see what was going on. To my right, I spotted Jayden. His front door had been slammed in his face, and in a fit of rage, he started kicking the hell out of it. Each violent kick was followed by a fresh stream of curse words. His anger was almost suffocating, and it radiated from him in waves, his body rigid with fury.

My stomach churned as I watched. Part of me wanted to look away, but another part of me couldn't tear my eyes off the scene unfolding before me. He was furious—furious in a way that was terrifying to witness. Every time his foot hit the door, it felt like a small explosion. The force behind it wasn't just physical; it was the anger he couldn't contain, a storm he was caught in, and I could see it wasn't just the door he wanted to break.

Then, a voice from inside—clear and desperate—cut through the chaos. A woman was crying out for him to leave. It wasn't the harsh, demanding tone I had expected. No, this was pleading. Begging. Something in her voice made Jayden stop. His body froze mid-kick, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, like the anger had just deflated him, leaving only exhaustion behind.

"Fine," he muttered, his voice cracking with something deeper than just frustration. There was so much sadness in those words, a brokenness that I couldn't ignore. He turned away from the door, his movements heavy, almost mechanical, as though he wasn't even in control of his own body anymore.