Thank you so much to those who commented on my pov dilemma! I decided to just finish up this story in 2nd pov since that's how I started it, but I probably won't be using it in any other story I write.

For a week you didn’t exist. You were in a sort of self-induced robotic stage in which you went about your normal everyday life on autopilot. Your legs got you up in the morning, your hands finished off the last remaining art projects of the semester, and your mouth chewed what little you fed it, but your brain hardly registered any of it. Your friends, and even people you had never even talked to, asked you about Zico; some looking out for your wellbeing, most in search of gossip. You either opted to ignore the person completely, or avoided the question all together, managing to neither deny nor agree. The vague answers only fueled rumors, however, and in the back of your brain you could feel the eyes of the people who kept up with the entertainment news, judging you and labeling you the dumped one who had yet to come to terms with the breakup. But while a small part of your mind took note of that, a larger part simply hid away the night of the incident all together. Once the semester ended and the month winter vacation started and you no longer had anything to preoccupy yourself with, you latched onto denial like a lifejacket in hopes that you wouldn’t drown.

For a few days you were able to pretend like Jiho was just busy with work and you used that to justify why there were no missed calls from him and why the ever present no-matter-what goodnight texts suddenly ceased. Block B was in its prime time, getting more and more famous with every song. That’s why Zico no longer had the time to do the little things he had always set time apart to do. Because he was just too busy. Not because he no longer wanted anything to do with you. For days you held yourself above water with that false belief, but when Seven Seasons issued out a statement that as a company they stayed out of their artists’ personal lives, your shield began to crack. Why weren’t they just denying the whole thing? Why were they keeping quiet on the matter?

Unless it was true.

And then he finally texted you.

“Kyung and Yongguk are going over tomorrow to pick up my stuff.”

You clutched your phone in your hands and stared and stared at the screen until the words blurred together and you had to shut your eyes to find some sort of balance because the world was tipping over and you were falling into an endless pit of unanswered questions and doubts and pain. How could he hurt you so much with such a simple sentence?

You curled up on the couch and tried, you really did try, to grasp onto denial because denial was good and it was more than wanting it; you needed it. You craved it because although it was cold and lonely, it was safe and kept you afloat. But the more you thought of him, of your history together and how you came to be, denial just slipped further and further through your fingers and instead a slow, burning anger grabbed onto your hand. It was strong and determined, the anger that flowed up your arms and down your torso, simmering in the pit of your stomach, fueled by the memories.

Jiho was the one who became attracted to you first. You had been visiting Yongguk, hanging out in his new studio when Zico walked in, but you were too engrossed on your phone, on the brink of winning Words with Friends against Zelo. You hardly even noticed his presence until Yongguk ruffled your hair and you were forced to look up. A minute to shake his hand, say your name and listen to his before you could deem it as polite enough to go back to your phone. You weren’t interested and he was hooked. He was the one who initiated contact. Right after you left the studio your phone vibrated with a text from an unknown number asking for a coffee date. It was promptly followed by a message from Yongguk saying he was sorry and blackmailed into giving out your number but that Jiho was a good guy. He was the persistent one when you turned him down time after time. You weren’t going to lie and say you weren’t slowly getting into him because boy was he charming. He was damn good at what he did and you loved how passionate he was about his work. But you were being realistic. He was a celebrity gaining more and more popularity by the day and you were just a college student. He had fans and you had homework. But he was so good at making you laugh. He knew just what to say to make you smile, just what to text to brighten your day. He made you feel wanted and important. You gave in. He was the one who assured you things would work out even though the odds weren’t in your favor. He was the one who told you you’d never regret being with him. He was the one with all the promises and he broke every single one when he cheated.

You were the one who sacrificed so much for a boy who never knew when to shut up but had all the right words. You gave up a normal relationship because of him. Dates were a secret, handholding was a secret- your relationship was a secret. Even when you went public everything had to be carefully planned, had to be approved of, had to be short and simple. But you cherished the few moments a week when you could just be with him in your apartment because there were not enough hours in the day for him to do everything in his schedule. He desired world domination after all. He was gone for weeks at a time when Block B had tours. Interviews after photo shoots after variety shows topped off with performances all over the place. You gave up so damn much for him to just throw it all out the window the moment he felt a little bored.

With every memory of every hardship you had to endure, the irritation just rose bigger and bigger and bubbled more and more inside you. Did you mean nothing to him? Were the two years you spent together all a joke to him? Were you just entertainment until he found someone better?

You tugged at your hair harshly and dragged your hands down your face as the warm tears once again came out to greet you. You knew the almost animalistic rage you currently harbored wasn’t only aimed at Jiho, but most of it was directed at yourself. How could you be so stupid? So naïve? How could you not notice it was all a lie? Too good to be true? As you shifted into a sitting position, you let the knot in your throat become loose, ripping out the sobs from within you. You knew why you were so enraged. This was the kind of anger that was mixed in with fear and embarrassment. You were scared. You had put so much trust in a man and it had all meant nothing to him. Were you so disposable? So easy to manipulate? But above that, you were humiliated. How could two years of your life been in vain? How could you be used so easily? When you told him you loved him when he came back from Japan, did he laugh at you in his mind? Did he tell his friends about how he was playing you? Were you a joke not only to him but to others as well? Was he out having fun with other beautiful models as you sat around your apartment moping and pitying yourself? Was he thinking about what a pathetic mess you were and laughing at the thought? Or were you simply out of his mind all together? Was he completely over you?

You sprung up from your couch and stood in the middle of your living room. Anger, this time pure, unadulterated fury, raced up and down your veins and seemed to settle in your fists. You suddenly had an urge to break something. You felt like hands were vibrating with the need to destroy something, anything, the same way he had wrecked your heart.

You turned to your right and your eyes immediately zeroed in on the picture frames on the side table. You were never able to freely post pictures on social networking sites, for obvious reasons, so you made up for it by decorating your entire apartment with dozens of pictures of you and Jiho. You grabbed the smallest of the frames on the table and held it in your hand, your thumb smoothing over the fake vintage wooden frame. Looking up, you lifted your arm, and using all the strength you could muster, you hurled the frame against the corner of the room. Your arm tingled with a sense of relief and it was almost like something was removed from your chest and you could finally take in a full breath. It only lasted for a moment, however, and before you knew it you were already reaching for the next frame; the sound of the glass shattering bringing you a strange form of satisfaction. But it only ever lasted a second, the sense of control that allowed you to feel normal again. You were on your way up the stairs in an almost manic search for more fragile objects that reminded you of your cheating ex when you tripped on a step and banged your head against the wall. It was barely a bump, but it seemed to shift something in you. And it was then, as you laid sprawled on the stairs looking like a beat up, sad version of Cinderella that all your strength just vanished- like an extinguished flame. You simply laid there and cried for what felt like hours before a sudden need to clean yourself started eating at you. Your brain wanted you to move quickly, to scamper up the rest of the steps, but you were barely able to hoist your body up and lug yourself to your restroom to draw yourself a bath. It all felt like you were trying to swim against a current when all you wanted to do was rest, to float. So you got in the bathtub, clothes and all, and let your body do as it wished. You closed your eyes and breathed in and out, slowly.

You were so tired.

Hope this chapter didn't disappoint too much and as always, comments and criticism are welcomed and encouraged!!