That night, the sound of rain fell outside and Doo's tears fell inside. She lay on her bed, wrapped in her blanket, hugging her pillow,crying her eyes out over a man who never came home on time, never called when he said he would, and never looked her in the eyes when he lied.
Doo was a sweet lady, with bright eyes and a voice soft as a baby's behind. People said she had a smile that could light up a room, but lately, it had been packed away, buried under layers of sadness. Her boyfriend, Prince,was the kind of man who was all charm in the daylight and a ghost by sundown.
She waited for him every evening. Dinner went cold. Her hopes with it. When the silence got too loud, she would cry — quietly at first, like a leaking faucet, then louder, like a storm breaking over a lonely field. Her pillow knew all her secrets. The blanket, all her prayers.
Doo wasn't weak, just tired. She believed love should feel like a blanket in the cold, not like standing barefoot on broken glass. But she kept hoping — hoping he'd change, hoping she'd be enough.
One night, as the moon cut clean across her small window, Doo looked at herself in the mirror. Red eyes. Raw heart. And a single, clear thought: this isn't love.
The next morning, she didn't cry. She packed a small bag and walked out the door with the sunrise behind her. Doo didn't know where she was going, but she knew what she was leaving: the ache, the silence, and a man who never knew her worth.
Sometimes, the bravest thing a girl can do is dry her tears, walk away, and start over. Doo did just that. And with every step, her heart cried less and hoped more.