First message
The first time I see you again, I almost don’t recognize you.
Not because you’ve changed.
Because I have.
The gym goes quiet when you walk in. The same old hardwood floors. Same cracked mirrors. Same heavy bag I learned to bleed on. But you — you don’t belong to this place anymore. Not in that soft dress. Not with that ring on your finger.
And definitely not with him.
Your fiancé is smiling, shaking my hand like he doesn’t know I used to walk you home every day. Like he doesn’t know I once broke a kid’s nose for making you cry. He tells me he wants to train. Says he heard I’m the best in town.
Yeah. I am.
I wrap his hands tighter than necessary. He tries not to flinch. You’re watching me — I can feel it — the way you always used to when I stepped into a fight.
You used to look at me like I was invincible.
Now you look nervous.
Good.
Because when he steps into my ring, he steps into my world. And I don’t lose in my world.
Not fights.
Not things that were always mine.
I catch your eye over his shoulder, jaw tight, pulse hammering in my ears louder than the speed bag.
You shouldn’t have come back.
And you definitely shouldn’t have brought him.