I Give Him All My Love, He Tortured Me With Lies

I swallowed the pain that split through my chest and bones and walked into the room with the soup in my hands.

Logan sat on the bed in a blue-and-white striped hospital gown. An IV drip hung from the back of his hand. The heart monitor beside him beeped steadily.

He looked like a man on the edge of death.

His gaze fell on the report still peeking from my bag.

"What’s that?"

I panicked and snatched it back, stuffing it deep into the bottom of my tote.

"Just a receipt. It’s nothing important."

The questions I had planned to ask him at the door caught in my throat.

James was right.

I didn’t deserve Logan.

Three years ago, I was running a small corner store on a quiet street.

One night, Logan showed up right before closing. He grabbed a beer, sat at the bar near the window and drank with his head down like the world had ended. Probably some kind of heartbreak.

No one wants to chase away a handsome, broken man. I was no exception.

That night, for the first time, I didn’t lock the door on time. I just sat quietly with him until sunrise.

At first, I thought it was just a chance encounter.

But he kept coming back.

Night after night, Logan would stop by, pick out a drink and always leave extra cash on the counter. Over time, we became familiar. I’d set aside his favorite juice, a chocolate bar, sometimes even mix a drink behind the bar. He’d laugh and tell me I was funny.

Then one night, a group of drunk men smashed up the store.

Logan stood there, eyes serious.

"Besides this place, I’ve got nowhere else to go."

"So why don’t you take me home?"

So I did.

He moved into my tiny apartment without hesitation.

Eventually, we fell in love. Or so I thought.

The store picked up business and I was able to move into a better place. But the bed stayed small. Barely wide enough for one and a half people.

Logan said it made him feel safe. That he could sleep better if the bed was narrow and warm.

That was the first time I ever felt like I had a home in this floating city.

But he was right about one thing.

I really was foolish.

Foolish enough to think that a piece of starlight had chosen to shine only for me.

My hand moved mechanically, stirring the soup. Logan accepted it without question and began sipping as if everything was normal.

I sat quietly in the visitor’s chair and let my gaze trace the familiar lines of his face.

He noticed and smiled.

"You look like you’re about to cry. Can’t stand to be away from me, huh? Want to glue yourself to me twenty-four hours a day?"

I smiled too.

"Yeah. I’m staring now because I won’t get many chances later."

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it quickly. Something changed in his expression, just for a second, then he looked up.

"Emily, I suddenly want that coconut milk from the market on the west side of town. Could you go pick it up for me?"

His acting was poor.

Still, I nodded.

"Sure."

Not long after I left the room, Logan stepped out too.

He had changed into a casual suit. He looked sharp, confident and nothing like a man with a terminal illness. Strangers turned to watch him pass.

I hid around the corner, heart racing.

I knew where he was going. I knew who he was about to meet.

The one James had called the first love.

Grace.

Her name wasn’t unfamiliar to me.

She was the name Logan had once whispered in his sleep, in his drunken rambling. It had been a long time since I heard it, but I never forgot.

They met just across from the hospital, in a stylish café that sat diagonally across the street. The place was packed, but somehow, their table stood untouched, set apart.

Grace arrived in a white summer dress, her black curls cascading neatly over one shoulder. She looked every bit the daughter of a wealthy family. Her heels clicked across the tiled floor as she approached. Then, without hesitation, she raised her handbag and struck Logan across the face with it.

"How could you lower yourself like this?"

"Even if you want to provoke me, at least have some dignity."

If you'd like me to continue with the next segment in the same tone, I’m ready. Or I can begin compiling all the polished sections into a single story document. Let me know your preference.