Jay jay pov:
The door closed.
The lock clicked.
And only then did my hands start shaking.
I leaned back against the wood, eyes fixed on nothing, chest tight like I'd been holding my breath for days and only just realized it. The hallway outside went silent, but his words stayed—echoing, pressing, demanding space inside my head.
You're being cruel.
I swallowed hard.
Cruel.
I slid down slowly until I was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest.
I wasn't cruel.
I was tired.
Tired of explaining pain like it needed justification. Tired of being told that my distance was worse than his betrayal. Tired of feeling like I owed someone access to me just because they regretted hurting me.
A soft knock sounded.
Not urgent. Not demanding.
"Jay," Judy's voice said gently. "Open up."
I hesitated, then unlocked the door.
She stepped in and immediately closed it behind her, like she knew I needed the world smaller right now. One look at my face and her expression shifted—sharp concern cutting through her usual teasing ease.
"Oh," she said quietly. "He snapped."
I nodded.
She didn't ask for details. She never did when it mattered. Instead, she kicked off her shoes and sat down beside me on the floor like this was exactly where she was meant to be.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I laughed.
It came out wrong—thin, almost broken.
"He called me cruel," I said.
Judy scoffed. "Of course he did."
I rubbed at my eyes. "I didn't yell. I didn't insult him. I didn't even raise my voice."
"You don't have to," she replied. "Men like him hear boundaries as attacks."
That hit something deep.
"I keep wondering if I'm doing this wrong," I admitted. "If I'm being too cold. Too distant."
Judy turned toward me fully. "Jay. Look at me."
I did.
"You gave him a chance to explain," she said firmly. "That was kindness. You didn't forgive him—that was self-respect. Those two things are not the same."
My throat tightened.
"He keeps acting like effort equals entitlement," I whispered. "Like if he tries hard enough, I'll have to soften."
Judy's jaw clenched. "That's not love. That's control dressed up as regret."
I exhaled slowly.
"And the flowers," I added. "He thinks they're replacing him. Like I'm doing this to hurt him."
Judy rolled her eyes. "Men always think they're the center of the story."
A small smile tugged at my lips despite everything.
"I didn't even smile," I said. "I just… accepted them."
"And that's driving him insane," she said. "Good."
I glanced at her. "You really don't like him."
She didn't hesitate. "I don't like people who only listen when they're losing."
That silenced me.
After a moment, I whispered, "He looked at me like I owed him something."
Judy softened then, her voice dropping. "You don't owe anyone access to you. Not your body. Not your time. Not your healing."
Tears burned again, but this time they fell quietly.
"I hate that part of me still reacts to him," I admitted. "I hate that it still hurts."
Judy leaned her head against mine. "Healing doesn't mean indifference. It means choosing yourself even when it hurts."
I closed my eyes.
Outside, footsteps echoed faintly—someone moving down the hall. Not him. Just life continuing.
"I'm not ready to forgive him," I said aloud, like I needed to hear it in my own voice.
"You don't have to be," Judy replied. "And you don't have to decide today. Or tomorrow."
I breathed in slowly.
For the first time since the hallway, my chest didn't feel so tight.
"He's going to keep trying," I said.
"I know," Judy said. "And you're going to keep saying no."
I nodded.
Not angry.
Not bitter.
Just clear.
Keifer didn't see this part.
He didn't see the way I sat on the floor and chose myself. Didn't hear the quiet strength settling back into place. Didn't understand that my distance wasn't punishment—
It was protection.
And this time, I wasn't moving it for anyone.