Chapter 1: Boarding the Escape

My phone screen glowed in the dark of my apartment like a wound that wouldn’t close. There they were—his texts, the ones he’d meant for her, not me. Photos of her legs wrapped around his waist in our bed, her mouth on him in the shower we’d tiled together last summer. The sting hit my chest first, sharp and hot, then dropped straight into my stomach like a stone. I sat on the edge of the mattress, fingers trembling so badly the screen blurred. Three years. Three fucking years of grading papers side by side on the couch, of him calling me “my good girl” while I cooked dinner, and this was how it ended. A late-night screenshot I wasn’t even supposed to see.

I didn’t cry. Not yet. I stood up, walked to the closet, and started packing like my hands belonged to someone else. Sundresses first—soft cotton ones that skimmed my thighs, the kind he used to slide up when we were in a hurry. Bikinis next, the ones I’d bought hoping he’d notice how they hugged my wide hips. Then the lacy lingerie, black and barely there, the set I’d worn for his birthday that he’d peeled off with his teeth. I balled it up and shoved it into the suitcase anyway. Fuck him. Let it remind me I was still soft, still curved, still worth wanting even if he couldn’t see it anymore.

The shower helped. Hot water beat down on my skin until it turned pink, washing away the salt of the tears I finally let fall. I stepped out, towel dropped, and stood naked in front of the full-length mirror. Thirty-one years old, high-school English teacher, curvy in all the places that used to make me self-conscious until I learned to love them. My soft C-cups felt heavy tonight, nipples already tightening in the cool air of the apartment, dark pink and sensitive from the crying. I ran my palms over them slowly, feeling the weight shift, the way they filled my hands just enough to spill between my fingers. Lower, my belly curved gently, then flared into wide hips that swayed when I walked, the kind that made jeans hug me like a secret. My thighs met with a soft press, a little jiggle when I shifted my weight. And between them—smooth, freshly waxed this morning out of pure spite. The skin there was silky, bare, the plump lips of my pussy slightly parted from the heat of the shower. I traced one finger down the mound, feeling the faint throb already building, the betrayal of my own body wanting touch even while my heart cracked open.