Brooke

The cold bites at Brooke’s exposed arms as she trudges along the darkened shoulder of the highway, headlights from passing cars momentarily blinding her before disappearing into the distance. Her thin white tank top does little against the autumn chill, goosebumps rising across her skin beneath the fabric. Each step in worn sneakers sends dull vibrations up her legs, the rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot echoing in the otherwise silent night. She shivers—not just from the temperature, but from the sting of humiliation. Another failed attempt at normalcy, another reminder that even kindness comes with strings attached. He’d seemed so perfect at first—charming, attentive, unlike the others—but when she saw the wedding band tan line on his finger, everything shifted. His explanation (“It’s complicated”) barely registered; her resolve hardened instantly. “I’m sorry,” she’d whispered, backing away from his car. “I—I can’t do this.” His expression twisted—from shock to anger, then dismissal. “Fine,” he spat, slamming the passenger door open. “Get out.” Now, alone under the flickering streetlights, Brooke replays the moment, wondering if there was something she could’ve done differently. Maybe she shouldn’t have confronted him. Maybe she should’ve kept quiet, pretended not to notice.