BRIE

          I don't know what it is about my stupid, dumb heart that makes it so appealing for people to break it, but I'm tired of repeatedly finding myself in this situation.

          See, I have this annoying tendency to be far too trusting, too naive, and it often gets me in trouble. I don't know if the big heart that is seen as a good thing by my family ("you're such a good girl, Brie, with such a giant heart," they all say. "Don't ever let anyone take that away from you!") is the main reason why I constantly land myself in heartbreaking situations or if it exclusively attracts guys whose goal is to lead me on for months.

          I always believe in the best parts of people, even when their entire existence is a huge, huge red flag, but it's like my rose-colored glasses prevent me from determining the color of the flag until it's too late. Even after the inevitable heartbreak, something I always attempt to brace myself for and have yet to learn how to cope with, my first instinct is to try and justify it. The red flags aren't that red; surely there's still something I can salvage.

          Needless to say, I'm not one to learn from my mistakes, but it just makes it easier to realize I'm the problem here. Relationship after relationship, breakup after breakup, heartbreak after heartbreak—I'm the one who always stays. I'm the common denominator.

          Blaming myself for the inevitable downfall of every relationship I get into would be a lot more helpful if I was actually working on improving the person I turn into whenever I'm seeing someone—clingy, needy, obsessive—but, after a while of trying to be someone I'm not, I grow comfortable and fall back into my old habits. Guys get tired of me, and then they leave. Rinse, repeat.

          I thought Cole would be different. I think that's why it hurts a lot more when his hand breaks through the barrier of my ribs, rips my heart out of my chest, and throws it to the floor of the campus café just to stomp all over it. He doesn't even bother cleaning up; it's just me picking up the pieces and attempting to put them back together. The cracks are wider and bigger than ever.

          I blink the tears away from my eyes and the sight of him, so beautifully cruel, becomes clearer. "Why?"

          Cole grimaces, hair so blonde it looks white whenever the late summer sunlight brushes against it. "I think it's one of those times when a relationship has just . . . run its course, you know? We're about to graduate—"

          "We've been back to college for three days, Cole," I correct, through gritted teeth. I want so badly to be one of those people who manage to hold back their tears whenever they're angry, but I'm not, and it just makes me look like an even bigger overemotional fool.

          I'm livid.

          There's boiling hot lava coursing through my bloodstream, scorching my body from the inside, and there could very well be smoke coming out of my ears (and yes, I've heard all the jokes about fiery redheads). However, since there are these stupid tears stinging the corners of my eyes, he has yet another argument going for him, one he can use to further the narrative where I'm crazy and obsessive and so sensitive.

          "—and I don't want to limit myself," he continues. "I felt stuck, Brooke. Being with you was a bit suffocating at times."

          "Okay, wow."

          There are many things I want to say to him, some more scathing and venomous than others, but no one ever prepares you for the moment your boyfriend (well, ex-boyfriend now, technically) dumps you in a public setting and proceeds to blame you for the whole ordeal. Though I'm far from perfect, Cole also knows me well enough to know how to hit me right where it hurts, always aiming for the killing blow. I hate that he's doing it, I do, but part of me knows I'm to blame for repeatedly allowing myself to be treated like this—it's my bread and butter, after all.

          I fly too close to the sun, get comfortable with the warmth, and ignore the flames licking at my skin and scorching my wings. Somehow, even after I crash and burn, I have the audacity to act all surprised and feel devastated when I'm lying on the ground. It's a miracle I always find the strength to get back up and move on with my life, no matter how heavy my bones feel, but there's something in me, this little light of mine glowing in my chest, that urges me to not give up. There is always something brighter ahead, even after the gray days, and I'll know better next time.

         The funny thing is that I don't ever learn from my mistakes. After an absurd number of failed relationships and the endless shaming and jokes I've had to endure about how I simply cannot keep a man, it would be wise to assume I'm growing smarter and bettering myself as a person. When it comes to love, it feels like my brain is replaced by fluffy, pink clouds of cotton candy, and all capabilities of rational thinking melt into mush. I haven't learned a damned thing, clearly, as I never see the signs.

          So, instead of snapping at Cole in a public place—because one of us has to have the decency to respect the other's feelings, and it obviously isn't him—I force myself to take my millionth deep breath of the day, tell myself I will get through this like I always do, and dig my nails into the reminder that things could be much worse.

          At least I still have my family and my friends, all the love I need in the world, and I have my self-respect, which is my most powerful weapon. It's not arrogance, but it protects me from having any permanent damage done to my heartstrings. Plus, this is my senior year of college, and I have my entire adulthood ahead of me, filled with thrilling adventures and traveling, new experiences of the romantic and platonic kind, and I need to focus on getting there. I can't let a stupid boy (that I do have feelings for, regrettably) ruin everything for me.

          "We'll have to keep things civil," I tell him, flashing him the politest smile I can muster, even though all I want to do is dunk his head in a pot of scorching oat milk so he'll have the faintest idea of how he made me feel. "I don't want there to be any drama, especially when we still have to work on my senior project—"

          At the mention of my senior project, which has been my main priority for my entire college career, Cole stiffens, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. This sends a painful spark of nervousness across my bloodstream, leaving my extremities tingling like circulation is slowly returning to them, and I think to myself surely he's not implying what I think he is.

          Surely he can't be that nasty, right? He knows how important this project is to me, for how long I've been planning it to the most obsessively microscopic detail, and he won't ever do anything to jeopardize it.

          "See, Brooke, here's the thing . . ."

          "Please tell me you're not about to tell me what I think you're about to tell me."

          "You know I believe in you and in your potential, and I've always been your biggest fan—"

          "Clearly not!"

          "—but I feel like it would be too much for me to stay involved in anything that includes you. You get it, don't you? We'd be spending way too much time together, it would get awkward because we wouldn't be talking at all, and then other people would start talking and making up all these scenarios. I need to focus on myself right now, and I can't risk having them joke about how I'm so hung up on my ex I can't even let her work on her little project."

          I let out a humorless laugh that comes out a lot higher in pitch than any sane, controlled person would ever release. As if being dumped wasn't humiliating enough, I have to sit here and listen to Cole diminish my work by treating the most important piece of art of my college career as some silly hobby.

          Yes, he was only taking part in it because I asked him to (more like begged him to, since there hasn't been a single moment in our relationship where I've felt like my love for photography has been appreciated and valued) as a favor, as something any boyfriend would do, as something I would have done for him unblinkingly, but this is rock bottom, even for me. The fact that he's prioritizing his image over a promise he made to me and projecting his insecurities all over me instead of dealing with them in a healthy way speaks volumes about him not being the person I thought he was.

          Like I always say, rose-tinted glasses are both the greatest thing in the word when the world blooms and blossoms into life around you, and the worst thing that could possibly happen to you. Maybe it's me and my idiotic optimism to blame, but I never thought he could ever do such a thing to me, like our entire relationship was a ruse or a rehabilitation center.

          "You have no right to do this," I snap, standing up so fast I nearly knock back my chair, and several heads turn around to face us. "You're heartless, you know that? You know how much this project means to me, and it's not little. Graduation depends on it. My entire future depends on how perfect it turns out, and you're choosing to ruin everything simply because you can't deal with what you think people you don't even care about will say about you."

          "Keep your voice down, Brie," he begs. "You're embarrassing us. Everyone is staring."

          "Then let them! I don't care!" Cole sinks even lower into his chair, as though being seen with me and being confronted with the errors of his ways is ruining his life. It's not like it's not my whole future being tossed aside like trash. "Let them stare, let them hear all about how you're selfish and insecure and how you let those things get in the way of a promise you made to me ages ago. Surely doing this is a lot better for your ego than knowing you'd still be helping me out even after a breakup, right? Who cares if we'd be seeing past our issues and working together."

          "That's not fair!"

          My hands rise to my hair, perfectly manicured nails digging into my scalp, and I know I'm only moments away from bawling my eyes out in the middle of the most crowded coffee shop on campus. I'm an angry crier, wearing my heart on my sleeve—I've heard it all. It's always my fault for being so emotional.

          "You're not fair, Cole." He crosses his arms now, finally adopting a defiant position. "You're a scared little boy who's too scared of facing the real world, so you're taking it all out on me and accusing me of suffocating you when all I've asked from you has been the bare minimum. God forbid I actually want to spend time with my boyfriend."

          "I'm scared? Brie, you're the one spending your whole life hiding behind a camera, behind romance books, and using romantic comedies as a standard for what a romantic relationship should be like." I raise my chin. Nothing he can say to me will hurt nearly as much as dumping me and my senior project in one fell swoop, but I have to admit he's reading me to filth. "You don't know what love actually is. You love the idea of love."

         "And you do? Do you think you know what love is when you care more about the opinions of strangers than you do about me?"

         "That's not what I said."

          "God! Fine! Whatever! I don't care!" I grab my coat and cup of coffee before I stop resisting the voice in my head beckoning me to dump my iced latte all over him. If I keep my hands busy, I can still walk out with some dignity left, and I don't want to let him win. Not like this. "Let me be in love with the idea of love all I want. It certainly beats loving the idea of you."

          In the same overly dramatic and somehow simultaneously unceremonious way Cole dumped me, I dump him right back—but not the drink, as it was expensive and I'm not exactly swimming in money—and storm out of the coffee shop, not caring about the whispers or the stares. I know I'm better than anything they can say about me or assume about the nature of my character, but there are times when I wish I could allow myself to crumble and wallow in self-pity.

          In my romantic comedies, there's always someone to remind the heroine that she doesn't have to be strong and sure of herself all the damn time, that vulnerability is okay. In real life, I'm mostly on my own, so whatever bullshit Cole was spewing about letting movies shape my views on reality is nothing but that—utter bullshit. On the plus side, storming out of rooms, especially coffee shops, is extremely on brand for me and for romantic comedies, so there's something bright about this whole situation.

          Reality slowly dawns on me once I'm outside, suddenly aware of what has just happened. Being shattered over a breakup is a natural reaction, especially when I never saw it coming, in spite of all the signs I conveniently ignored but didn't fully erase out of existence. That is something I have extensive experience in, and I always find a way of bouncing back—all my failed relationships have taught me that much, that boys come and go, but self-love is forever. There was one relationship years ago that almost destroyed me and I never thought I'd make it out of the dark spiral it had sent me into, though, but I still did. I can survive Cole.

          My academic, professional, and personal future is something else entirely. Messing with my heart is one thing, but ruining the future I've so carefully planned out for years is unforgivable, something the rational part of my brain uses as ammo to justify Cole's actions as calculated. If he had been thinking about breaking up with me, screwing up my senior project, and leaving me to rot for months without having the courage to do it, then he's a far more horrid person than I thought.

          Outside, surrounded by all these people who don't care, I exhale. I exhale through my mouth, a shaky, pathetic little sigh mixed with a sob, and my hands are shaking so violently I've spilled some of my latte on my wrists and clothes—on the day I decided to wear white jeans, even.

          Then, I hear it. I hear the voice that I've attempted to avoid for over four years.

          "Oh, hey there, Brie. What crawled up your ass and died?"

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

in typical cate fashion, i've already had to chop words from this chapter and move them to the next one. like brie, i also never learn from my mistakes.

it's a new dawn. a fresh page. a heartbreak in remission, if you will. we've entered the lighthearted book era FOR ONCE, so i'll be experimenting with trope and fluffy romance etc. do keep in mind i'm writing this for nanowrimo and nothing here is edited to my usual standard, so please don't be mean. ty

please let me know what you think!! brie is a bit different from the protagonists i usually write, but that's okay. i needed a change