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Chapter 50 – Not Him, But Someone
Amara's POV
"Girl, you need to snap out of it."
Zariah's voice cut straight through my tired thoughts as I stared at my untouched milkshake. We were seated at our favorite rooftop café — the one with fairy lights, low music, and a view of the city that usually felt dreamy. But today, nothing felt like anything. Not even the sky.
"I'm trying," I muttered, stirring the straw in circles. "I really am."
"No, you're not," she snapped. "You're stalking his Instagram stories like a maniac, showing up at every work event with your heart in your throat, and acting like one-night-stand Ethan Lantel is the last man left on earth."
I flinched at the mention of his name. Even hearing it out loud still hurt. I hated that.
"I don't know how to stop," I admitted quietly, lowering my gaze. "It's like… I keep waiting for something. Anything. A sign that he saw me. That he felt something that night too."
Zariah raised an eyebrow. "You really think he did?"
I bit the inside of my cheek. "I don't know."
She sighed and leaned closer. "Amara, I love you. You know I do. But you are wasting your emotions on a man who clearly doesn't give a damn. He sleeps with women like it's a sport. Every week, it's someone new. That is not love. That is not even kindness."
My throat tightened.
"I know," I whispered.
"So stop waiting around for him to remember your name. You're beautiful, smart, kind… and twenty-two. Don't waste your youth crying over someone who probably can't even remember what color your eyes are."
I looked up. "You think I should just… move on?"
Zariah gave me a knowing look. "I think you need a serious distraction. A boyfriend. Someone who actually sees you. Who texts you first. Who buys you flowers because he wants to, not because he's apologizing for disappearing."
I stayed quiet, letting her words settle into the silence between us.
"Or," she added, "you could just hook up with someone. Get it out of your system. Sometimes a good orgasm fixes everything."
I nearly choked on my drink. "Zariah!"
She smirked. "I'm just saying."
"I can't do that," I said quickly, shaking my head. "The thought of sleeping with someone else… it makes me sick."
"Why?" she asked gently. "Because it's not Ethan?"
I nodded, feeling stupid for admitting it out loud. "It's like… my body still belongs to him. It's so messed up, but the idea of someone else touching me… it just feels wrong. I don't want it."
Zariah leaned back and crossed her arms. "Then forget the sex. Just get a boyfriend. Date someone who's available. Let him show you what real affection feels like. What it means to be wanted in the open, not in the dark."
That idea didn't make me sick.
It made me scared — but not sick.
A boyfriend. Someone real. Someone who wouldn't ghost me. Someone who would hold my hand in public. Someone who wouldn't make me feel like a forgotten secret.
I chewed my bottom lip.
"Do you… know anyone?" I asked hesitantly.
Zariah's eyes sparkled with victory. "Thought you'd never ask."
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The next day, she sent me a picture.
> Zariah: His name is Malik. 24. Graphic designer. Has a car, owns a cat, and has never broken a girl's heart. I promise.
> Zariah: Plus he has cute dimples and bakes his own bread. Like??? That's husband energy.
I laughed for the first time in days.
I didn't respond right away. I spent the whole afternoon thinking. Staring at Ethan across the office — watching him flirt with some investor's daughter like it was a game. Then watching him walk away like none of it mattered.
It always came back to him. The ache. The waiting.
But maybe… maybe I was tired of waiting.
Maybe I deserved to be looked at the way I looked at him. Maybe I deserved texts that said "I miss you," and calls just to hear my voice. Maybe I deserved to be someone's first thought — not an aftertaste.
That night, I messaged Zariah back.
> Me: Okay. Set it up.
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We met at a quiet coffee shop three days later.
Malik was tall, warm-eyed, and surprisingly easy to talk to. He listened when I spoke. Laughed at my dry humor. Asked me about my art dreams and told me about his favorite childhood books. He had this calm about him — a softness that wasn't boring, just... peaceful.
And the whole time we talked, he didn't once look at his phone. He looked at me.
It felt strange at first — to be seen.
No games. No tension. Just connection.
He walked me home that night, and when he reached the gate, he didn't try to kiss me. He just smiled.
"I'd really like to see you again," he said. "No pressure."
I nodded slowly, heart pounding. "I'd like that too."
As he walked away, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.
Hope.
It wasn't Ethan. It would never be Ethan.
But maybe that was okay.
Maybe someone else could find the broken pieces Ethan left behind… and choose to stay anyway.
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