I lost on you

WARNING: SENSITIVE CONTENT

Please take a moment to read this warning before proceeding.

This book explores emotionally complex themes that some readers may find sensitive; the content may trigger unpleasant memories or provoke strong emotional reactions.

The story depicts and discusses the following themes:

1) Suicide and suicidal ideation.

2) Depression, emotional pain, and psychological crises.

3) Grief, loss, and guilt. Infidelity, lies, and romantic betrayal.

4) Toxic relationships, emotional manipulation, and control.

5) Narcissistic behavior and emotional abuse.

6) Rjection, unrequited love, and heartbreak.

7) Jealousy, conflict, and unhealthy emotional attachment.

8) LGBTQ+ themes, including bisexuality and related experiences.

9) Loneliness, self-worth issues, and emotional vulnerability.

10) Parties, alcohol, and impulsive decisions.

11) Death, the aftermath of loss, and mourning loved ones.

While these themes may be portrayed with emotional intensity, the story does not aim to romanticize suicide, emotional abuse, or harmful relationships.

Please take care of yourself while reading. If any topic becomes too difficult for you, it is perfectly acceptable to take a break, skip certain scenes, or stop reading altogether. Your emotional well-being is always more important than the ending of any story.

"The most painful thing when loving someone is realizing that they never loved you the same way."

~ Words from the book "I lost on you" ~

Three years ago

~ Alex ~

"Why do people always realize too late that they loved the wrong person? Even though there were hundreds of signs—even though everyone said 'no'—he still plunged straight into hell. Why?

It was obvious that nothing would come of it... that it wouldn't work out. So why did they choose that path anyway? A path that was winding, branching, indirect. It really... hurts..."

What kind of nonsense am I writing here?

That’s the question plaguing me as I delete the sentences I’d just spent hours writing.

After sitting there for a while, I close my laptop, realizing I won’t be writing anything else today.

And yet, everyone is waiting for the sequel—I sigh under my breath. Everyone is waiting for the damn sequel to my book. But I have nothing to write about. There are no ideas... no... experience.

Yes, my first book drew huge interest, but now everyone is waiting for the next installment because—being an idiot—I ended the book in a way that made it clear there would be a second one.

Why did I do that? I could have just finished it. Written "The End" and been done with it. But no, I didn't. Why? Because I’m a damn fool who wanted a duology.

Not wanting to analyze my behavior any further, I look in the mirror. I see a guy standing there who hasn't looked like himself for days. Dark, heavy bags hang beneath eyes as blue as the sea, yet the color of the eyes themselves has become something alien and unfamiliar—so bloodshot that the blue is all but gone.

I look like a vampire, I think with a silent laugh.

Looking at my state, I can safely say I look pathetic—except for one thing that has remained exactly as it always is: my hair.

My curly brown hair hasn't budged; it stays perfectly in place, as if the "exhaustion" draining my entire body hasn't touched it at all. That’s probably because my mother won't let me go anywhere unless my hair looks perfect. It matters a great deal to her, though she’s never explained why.

Suddenly, there’s a knock on my bedroom door.

"Alex," my mother’s voice calls out. "Are you awake?"

"No," I say after a moment's hesitation.

A few minutes later, the brown oak door swings open, and a tall woman steps across the threshold—beautifully featured, with those same blue eyes and long, straight hair. She looks me over, noticing just how terrible I must look.

But, of course, that’s hardly surprising, since right now—in my opinion—I look worse than a prisoner or a homeless person.

"Did you want something?" I ask her as an unbearable silence settles between us. It’s the kind of silence that often arises when we both want to say something but, unfortunately, can’t—because, however much I hate to admit it, our relationship isn't exactly built on deep trust.

"Yes," she finally says, her voice barely a whisper.

"And what was that?"

"To ask how you're doing."

I roll my eyes.

Well, of course—how could that question not have crossed your mind?

"Fine," I reply, gesturing toward my closed laptop.

Although my gaze betrays my contempt for the thing, perhaps because of the darkness—or simply because she doesn't want to see it—my mother misses the look; she smiles, taking my answer at face value.

"That’s wonderful," she says.

She turns to leave, but I stop her, unsure if I’m doing the right thing.

"Mom..." My tone makes her pause for a moment.

She turns back to me, and a flash of indifference crosses her eyes—yet there is also a faint, barely perceptible trace of hesitation.

"Was that really the only thing you wanted to ask?" – I double-check, hoping deep down that she’ll say "no," come over to me, and sit down. That she’ll say it will be all right even if I never write this second book. That is what I truly want.

But is it possible?

"Yes."

Yes.

That simple word destroys everything: my imagination, my dreams... perhaps even my belief in love itself.

After all, I asked for so little.

That day, I realized that perhaps I am simply unlovable, or else love will find me on its own one day... but not just yet...

When?

~ Sophia ~

I hate myself... I want to be better, prettier. More perfect.

I want to be loved.

But I don’t know how to achieve that when I look so... pathetic.

I know I’m probably thinking foolishly, but still... why does everyone else have love, except me? Why...? Am I unlovable? Or maybe love is a phenomenon that happens to only a few people in this world, and I didn't make the cut.

Most people would probably just laugh at my thoughts, but it’s the truth. I became convinced of it today: beauty is fucking everything in this world. Popularity, too.

Beauty and popularity—that’s all there is, I tell myself, thinking about what happened today.

And I want to cry.

Today was supposed to be a perfect day—my day. There was a party tonight, and the guy I’d been seeing for over a year turns out to have another girlfriend. And he brought her to the damn dance!

He humiliated me in front of everyone. And then he just smiled and asked:

"Is something wrong, Sophia?"

I didn't say a word, of course. I just turned around, vanished from the hall, and burst into tears. I cried all the way home, where my sister was waiting to hear everything. But, unfortunately, that was the only news there was. She wanted to comfort me, but my parents came home, and—not wanting to reveal that I was already back—I slipped away to my room, where they hadn't found me yet.

But did they even look for me? Would they even care about what happened to me tonight? Or would they just shrug it off?

We don’t cry often in our family—and certainly not over things like this, but over much... more serious matters. That’s why they can’t find out why I came back so early, or even that I’m back at all.

Suddenly, my phone vibrates.

Hoping it’s my friend, I pick it up.

No.

It’s not my friend; he’s just posted something new. The post shows him and that bitch, Amelia Rickards.

How is she better than me? I ask myself, but I realize the answer soon enough.

Amelia’s golden hair falls over perfectly sculpted shoulders, a strong male arm supports her petite frame, and her amber-yellow eyes stare straight into the camera.

Though it looks to me like the girl is staring at me. Mockingly. As if saying: "I have him and you don’t, bitch."

I feel my hands start to tremble; my field of vision narrows. I realize I’m about to cry again.

A pathetic sight, isn't it?

Yet, before I can even start to weep, my phone vibrates again. I can barely bring myself to look at the screen.

A friend.

Finally. That’s exactly what I need.

She’s calling me.

She probably saw that jerk’s post, I mutter under my breath.

I answer, trying to keep my voice sounding natural.

"Hi," I say.

"Don't you dare say 'hi' to me," she snaps immediately. "I saw Ewald's new post and realized what happened—and why I haven't seen you lately."

"Yeah," is all I manage to say.

"Idiot," my friend mutters, her tone full of anger and hatred.

"It’s fine," I try to calm her down.

"Excuse me?" she practically shrieks. "Did you seriously just say 'it’s fine,' or did I mishear you, honey?"

"That is what I said," I confirm.

"There is nothing fine about this!" she shouts now. "That damn bitch stole your boyfriend, and you say it’s fine? No, no, no... that is not okay. I’m going to kill her," she hisses, lifting my spirits a little.

"Don't," I say. "You go have fun; I’ll manage somehow."

"Are you sure?" she asks.

In the background, I hear her boyfriend’s voice asking her to dance.

"Yes, I’m sure. Go. Bye." I hang up without letting her say another word and collapse onto my bed. As I lie there, the question returns: am I unlovable?

After all, you’re the fourth guy to break my heart. The fourth.

But I’ve had enough, I tell myself, calming down a little. No, I’m truly done with you. I won’t let anyone break my heart again.

Suddenly, a wave of relief washes over me—or perhaps the realization that Ewald probably isn’t the one for me. Besides, he’s a damn player, and I don’t go for that sort of thing. Not my type.

It’s for the best. We weren’t right for each other anyway, I reassure myself.

Unexpectedly—even though I’d ​​been crying just seconds ago—I realize it’s ridiculous to cry over things like this. Love can go to hell...