Exes & Ohs

The memory always started with the music.

It was a low, thrumming bass that vibrated in the soles of Laureine’s feet, the kind of rhythm that made the rest of the world blur into a smudge of neon and smoke. That night, the club had felt like a sanctuary. Reymond’s hands were locked firmly around her waist, pulling her so close that there wasn’t a breath of air between them. He tucked his face into the crook of her neck, his lips grazing her skin in a way that made her feel like the only woman in the city.

“You’re mine, Laureine,” he had whispered against her pulse. “Only mine.”

He had been so demanding that night, his jealousy flared by every passing glance from another man. He had kissed her with a desperate, crushing intensity on the dance floor, hidden by the strobe lights. In those moments, she thought it was passion. She thought it was a love so big it had to be kept secret to survive.

But that was the trap.

Reymond never took her to the places where his world lived. Their “dates” were long, midnight drives far beyond the city limits, to quiet diners where the staff didn’t know his name or secluded overlooks where the only witnesses were the stars. If they ever bumped into a stray acquaintance of his, his arm would drop from her shoulder as if she were made of lead.

“This is Laureine,” he would say, his voice turning cool and casual. “She’s a great friend. One of the best.”

Then, once they were back in the car, he would be all over her again, his hands possessive, his words sweet as honey, apologizing for the “privacy” he claimed they needed to protect what they had.

The drive home that final night had been quiet. The heater in the car was humming, and Laureine had rested her head on his shoulder, feeling a sleepy, contented glow. He had parked in front of her apartment, the engine idling with a low, rhythmic thud.

She turned to kiss him goodbye, but Reymond didn’t lean in. He sat with his hands gripped white-knuckled on the steering wheel, staring straight through the windshield.

“I can’t do this anymore, Laureine,” he said. The voice wasn’t his. It was cold, clinical, and completely detached.

Laureine’s heart faltered. “Do what? What are you talking about?”

“Us. This,” he gestured vaguely between them. “I’m done. Honestly? You’ve become a headache. I need space, and I don’t think I want you in it.”

The word headache felt like a physical blow. It was so small, so dismissive. After months of him demanding her time, her secrecy, and her heart, he was throwing her away like a chore he was tired of doing. He didn’t look at her once as she climbed out of the car, her legs shaking so badly she nearly fell. He was gone before she even reached her front door.

Two weeks later, the silence was broken by Bill.

Bill was the only one who had truly seen her through the wreckage, the only one- besides her other best friend- who even knew she had been in a relationship.

“I saw him, Laur',” Bill said, sitting on her sofa and looking at her with a pity that made her want to scream. “At the movies. In the West End.”

Laureine froze, her hand trembling as she held her coffee mug. “Was he alone?”

“No,” Bill sighed. “He was with a girl. Small, blonde, wore a lot of pearls. You know, the one he used to mention? The ‘best friend’ from childhood?”

Laureine felt the blood drain from her face. Pamela. The girl he told her not to worry about. The girl who was “like a sister.”

“He was holding her hand, Laur,” Bill continued gently. “Not like a friend. Like he wanted everyone in that lobby to know she was his. When he saw me, he looked like he’d seen a ghost. He panicked. He literally turned her around and walked the other way.”

It was then that the truth began to settle in like a cold frost. He hadn’t wanted “privacy.” He had wanted a secret. He hadn’t been protecting them; he had been protecting his image with the girl he actually intended to keep.

Reymond hadn’t run because she was a headache. He had run because he was a coward who had been caught playing two different games on two different boards.

And the worst part? Despite the lies, the secrecy, and the way he had erased her, Laureine still couldn’t stop her heart from beating for a man who had never even acknowledged she existed...

The weeks following Bill’s revelation were a blur of hollow silences and frantic distractions. Laureine did what every woman with a shattered heart and a lingering sense of pride does: she decided to win.

She threw herself into her work with a ferocity that bordered on obsession. She stayed late at the office until the cleaning crews arrived, she signed up for every grueling international project no one else wanted, and she hit the gym until her muscles screamed louder than her thoughts. On the outside, she was evolving. She traded her soft edges for sharp blazers and a cold, professional efficiency. She became the woman who could navigate a crisis in three different time zones without smudging her lipstick.

But beneath the “Power Woman” facade, the ghost of that night in the car remained. Every time she achieved a milestone, a small, treacherous voice in her head whispered: Is this enough? If I were this successful back then, would I still have been a “headache”?

She was haunted by the lack of a real ending. He hadn’t fought with her; he hadn’t even given her the courtesy of a conversation. He had simply uncurled his fingers and let her drop.

And then there was the digital tether.

She knew she should have blocked him. Her friends told her to delete his number, to burn the bridge, to erase the man who had hidden her like a dirty secret. But she couldn’t. Every time she hovered over the ‘Block’ button, her thumb would freeze. Keeping him there was her only proof that the relationship had actually happened- that she hadn’t just hallucinated those months of midnight drives and whispered promises.

The torture was that Reymond didn’t disappear.

He never messaged her. He never replied to her life. But he was always watching.

She would post a photo from a rooftop bar in Singapore, looking radiant in a backless dress, and within minutes, his name would appear at the top of her “Viewed” list. Sometimes, a “Like” would pop up- a casual, heart-shaped notification that felt like a jolt of electricity to her spine.

It was a cruel, low-stakes game. He was keeping her on a leash made of pixels. Every “Like” was a breadcrumb, a way of saying I’m still here, and I’m still looking, without ever having to say I’m sorry. It kept the wound raw. It made her wonder if he was comparing his new life to her highlights, or if he was just checking to see if she was still waiting for him.

She spent years in this state of “functional heartbreak”; moving forward in her career while her heart remained anchored to a man who had treated her like a “friend” in public and a headache in private.