Travis kelce

When Taylor told me she wanted "some time for herself," I felt like I was being kicked in the chest. Time? What the fuck did that mean? It seemed like a cheap excuse. A soft way of saying, "I'm tired of you," "I don't love you anymore," "I want to be with someone else." Either way, it hurt. But I wasn't going to let her see it. Not to her, not to anyone. Because I'm not the type to let myself be seen sad or hurt. Or at least not the type to accept it.

So I did what I do best: keep my mouth shut and pretend I don't give a damn. I went out drinking with my friends, to clubs, to bars. I surrounded myself with women I didn't care about and started posting photos, stories... whatever it took to make Taylor see that I was over her. I even went out with my ex—yes, the same one Taylor once told me she was insecure about. I knew it would hurt her. And honestly, I wanted it to hurt her. Like it did me.

And it worked.

One night, I got your message.

*"I want to see you. We need to talk."*My stomach churned. I read it like five times. I didn't know whether to smile or tell her to fuck off. But I ended up saying yes. How ironic. So much for showing off, so much for trying to get over her… and now I was outside her house, my hands sweaty on the steering wheel, shaking like an idiot.

I watched her leave and gulped. She got in without saying anything, closing the door with that dry sound that pierced my nerves. She turned to me. And then, without beating around the bush, she blurted it out.

—I hate everything you're doing, Tom. Why are you doing this? You know it hurts me, and I know you did it with that purpose. I know you. You're vindictive. I know that my leaving you hurt you, and now you're being immature.

Travis