Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 41

When a heart hurts this much, people change. That’s the logical thing to do.

Think about it: when your skin is cut, you don’t keep picking at the wound, rubbing salt into it. You don’t pour isopropyl over it every time it stings, it’s painful and slows down healing. You cover it, protect it from infection and dirt, give it space to mend.

Emotional wounds work the same way.

When you get hurt, really hurt, you can either obsess over it, reopen it, and make it worse, or you can put up a wall. You cover it, keep it clean and hidden, and hope that over time, it gets better.

That’s what I’m doing.

I’m not trying to forget Betty or pretend it didn’t happen. I’m just protecting what’s left of myself, my pride, my heart.

Because sometimes the most logical way to survive is to stop trying to fix what’s broken right away and instead give yourself space to heal, on your own terms.

Maybe that means I look different now. Maybe it means I act differently. Maybe some people call it giving up. But really, it’s just survival.

And that’s all I can do.

I stood in front of the mirror in my room, eyes locked on a face I barely recognized anymore. The reflection staring back was someone new, someone hardened, guarded. This was the new Matt. My new shell.

Without thinking, I balled my fist and punched the glass. The sharp crack exploded across the surface, and pain bloomed in my knuckles as shards bit into my skin. Blood welled up, warm and sticky, dripping down my fingers.

I blinked away the sting and looked back at the fractured reflection. Now, beneath the broken glass, I could see a distorted version of my old self, fragile, fractured, almost too broken to make out clearly. Just like me.

Broken.

So maybe the next logical thing was to buy a new mirror.

I reached up and opened the cabinet, fingers fumbling for a gauze pad. Wrapping it tightly around my bleeding knuckles, I felt the cold cotton soothe the burning skin.

My phone buzzed on the desk. A chat from Betty.

I hesitated before opening it. Another proposal attached.

It wasn’t that her previous ideas were bad. But each one felt like a reminder, of everything I was trying to avoid. Of all the parts of her, of us, that I couldn’t face.

That’s why I told her to revise it.

I tapped the attachment open.

A moodboard stared back at me: black tie. Formal. Transactional. Performative. Fake, but grown.

I liked it.

I typed out one word.

Approved.

I set my phone down carefully on the study table. Books lined up neatly beside it, order amid chaos.

A small ache tugged at me, at the way I treated her. At what I was becoming. But logic told me this was better. Better for all of us. I carry their pain. Betty and James get to be happy. Everyone wins. Or so I tell myself.

I sank down onto the edge of my bed, the rough cotton of my shirt scratching against my scraped knuckles. The silence in my room felt heavy, like the weight of everything I wasn’t saying. I kept telling myself it was the logical choice. To pull away. To build this new version of myself that didn’t care. That didn’t get hurt. That didn’t need anyone. But deep down, I knew the truth was uglier. I cared. God, how much I cared. Every time I saw Betty laughing with James, my chest tightened. Like a fist squeezing something fragile inside me, a part I didn’t want to admit still existed. Maybe I changed because it hurt too much to watch. To lose her to someone else, again and again. Maybe I became this bitter, closed-off version of myself as a shield—because letting myself feel it all would’ve broken me. But now, I didn’t know if I was protecting myself or just shutting everyone out.