Chapter 18: Shattered Pieces

Cody POV

I stand outside my apartment, rain tapping soft on my head. Jake’s text—“Told you he’d break you”—burns in my pocket. Ryan’s voice echoes from inside, “Cody, please!” It’s raw, wrecked. My chest’s tight, like it’s caving in. I left him there, drunk and begging on my kitchen floor. My hands shake bad as I walk away. My shorts are damp, sticking to my legs. Every step hurts, heavy and cold. I hear him still, faint through the door. My heart’s ripping, but I keep going. Fame’s too big. Tara’s poison. Jake’s warning. It’s all crashing down.

I get to my dance studio, dark and empty. My key scrapes the lock, loud in the quiet. Inside, I flip the lights. They buzz, yellow and weak. My shirt comes off fast, tossed in a corner. I’m sweaty, shaky. I need to end it. For real. My phone’s heavy in my hand. I call him. It rings once. He picks up quick. “Cody?” he says, voice thick, slurring still. My throat closes up.

“Your world’s too big,” I say, voice cracking hard. My eyes sting, hot and wet. “I can’t do this.” My chest heaves, air stuck. I hear him breathe, fast and shaky.

“No,” he says, loud. “Cody, don’t. I need you.” His voice breaks, tears clear through the phone. My knees wobble. I squeeze my eyes shut, fist clenching. “Please,” he begs, soft now. “I love you.” It hits me hard, like a punch. My heart twists, shredding.

“I love you too,” I whisper, hoarse. “But it’s done.” My hand shakes bad. I hang up fast, before he can say more. My phone drops, clattering loud. My fist slams the wall. Pain shoots up my arm, sharp and hot. I hit it again, harder. The plaster cracks, dust falling. I sob, loud and messy. Tears run down my face, salty on my lips. My knees give out. I slide down, back to the wall, crying hard. My chest hurts, empty and raw. He’s gone. I made him gone.

Days blur. Silence is loud, deafening. My apartment’s a mess—couch sagging, dishes piled up. I don’t dance. I don’t eat much. My phone stays off, buried in a drawer. I see him everywhere. His grin on that rooftop. His lips on my neck in the pool. Flashbacks hit me hard, too real. I’m on his bed, legs over his shoulders. He’s deep inside, thrusting slow then fast. My moans fill the room, loud and needy. “Ryan,” I gasp, nails raking his back. His skin’s hot, sweaty under my hands. He grunts, low and rough, hips slamming mine. The bed creaks, wood groaning with us. His eyes lock on me, dark and wild. I feel him, thick and hard, stretching me. My head tips back, mouth open, coming hard with his name on my lips.

I snap out of it, alone in my bed. My hand’s down my shorts, moving fast. My breath’s shaky, chest tight. I picture him again—his mouth on my cock, wet and hot. His tongue swirls slow, sucking deep. I moan loud, hips bucking up. His hands grip my thighs, holding me down. I tug his hair, thick and soft, guiding him. He groans, vibrations shaking me. I’m close, so close. My hand speeds up now, desperate. I come fast, spilling over my stomach, panting hard. My room’s dark, quiet. I’m alone. My heart aches, shredded. I wipe my hand, rolling over. Sleep won’t come.

I wonder about him. He’s hurting too, I know it. I see him in my head, drunk still, mad at me. Maybe he’s with someone else. My stomach twists, sick and cold. I picture him in some bar, a stranger pressed close. His hands rip at their shirt, rough and fast. He’s on them, thrusting hard, hating it. His face twists, eyes shut tight. He sees me—my blond hair, my moans—not them. His hips move, angry and lost. He grunts loud, coming quick, but it’s empty. He shoves them off, stumbling away, wrecked. My chest hurts more, thinking it. I hope it’s not true. I hope he’s alone, missing me.

My days drag, slow and gray. I sit on my couch, staring at nothing. My fist’s bruised, purple from the wall. It throbs when I flex it. Good. I need the hurt. My phone’s still off. Too proud to call. Too scared. Flashbacks keep coming, sharp and hot. We’re in his kitchen, him bending me over the counter. His hands bruise my hips, pulling me back. He’s in fast, deep, thrusting quick. Flour sticks to my chest, gritty and white. I moan loud, “Ryan,” my voice breaking. He laughs, breathless, slamming harder. Skin slaps loud, wet and messy. My legs shake bad, knees buckling. He holds me up, grunting low. I come hard, spilling on the floor, his name a cry. He follows, groaning deep, warm inside me.

I jerk awake, hand on myself again. My shorts are down, tangled at my ankles. My breath’s fast, ragged. I move quick, chasing it. His lips on my cock flash again—slow licks, hot sucks. My moans echo in my head, real as ever. I tug myself harder, desperate. My back arches, toes curling. I come fast, loud and shaky, alone in my dark room. My chest heaves, empty now. Tears slip out, quiet and hot. I pull my shorts up, curling tight. The silence screams, loud and cold. My heart’s in pieces, scattered.

I get up slow, legs weak. My apartment’s a cage, small and suffocating. I shuffle to the kitchen, barefoot on the cold floor. My hands shake as I grab water. My throat’s dry, sore from crying. I sip slow, staring at the counter. Us there, laughing, fucking. Now it’s just me. My chest aches bad, like it’s bleeding inside. I set the glass down, too hard. It clinks loud. I lean on the counter, head down. My hair falls in my face, blond and messy. He loved that. My eyes sting again.

Then I see it. His hoodie. Black, soft, shoved under the couch. My heart stops. My legs move before I think, dropping me to the floor. I grab it, fast and clumsy. It smells like him—sweat, cologne, us. My hands shake bad, clutching it tight. A sob catches in my throat, loud and raw. My chest cracks open wider.