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Derek sat at his desk, staring at the lines of code on his screen as if sheer **** of will could make them resolve into something other than gibberish. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a relentless pounding behind his eyes that made every glowing character blur together. The overhead fluorescent lights were too bright, the hum of the office too loud, the smell of stale coffee and microwaved leftovers turning his stomach.

He was a fucking wreck.

"Jesus, man," came a voice from over his shoulder. Derek didn't have to turn to know it was Tom, one of the other developers. The guy was always popping up at the worst times, like a human notification that refused to be dismissed. "You look like shit. You sick or something?"

"I'm fine," Derek muttered, rubbing his temples.

"Sure," Tom snorted, "That why you look like you crawled out of a ditch? Seriously, you're giving off a whole 'dead man walking' vibe. If you're going to stay up drinking all night, at least commit and stay home the next day."

Derek gritted his teeth. "I said I'm fine."

Tom held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, dude. Just saying, if this is about your girl—"

"Drop it."

Tom shrugged. "Whatever, man."

Derek waited until Tom wandered off before exhaling slowly, trying to focus. Work was supposed to help. It was supposed to give him something to hold onto, something to drown out the mess in his head. Instead, the code on his screen swam before his eyes, and all he could focus on was last night.

It was a shitty bar and he was in a shitty mood. Whisky in his hand, the ice clinking against the glass, Derek did his best to put her out of his mind. To put Eliza out of his mind. Eviction. She had taken up residence in his brain, in his heart, and Derek needed to evict her. The liquor was the eviction notice.

He had started with beer, but beer was too slow. He needed the real estate. Eliza hadn't just left him, she'd left him for that young guy. A short, skinny, dweeb of a guy who was wearing Derek's clothes! So whiskey it was. Strong, numbing, the kind of burn that made it feel like it was eating away at something inside him.

He’d tried to talk to a woman at the bar. A rebound would help. Help him bounce back. Blonde, high heels, looked like she did yoga and had opinions about oat milk. He started with a joke. She gave him a polite smile and turned away.

Second attempt: brunette, alone, scrolling on her phone.

“Hey,” he tried, voice smooth, “Waiting for someone, or are you just here to break hearts?”

The blue eyes beneath her bangs rolled.

“I’m waiting for my girlfriend.”

Strike two.

The third one bit. Red dress, dark eyes, just tipsy enough to giggle when he bought her a drink. They talked. She laughed. Touched his arm. It should’ve been easy.

But it wasn’t.

She wasn’t Eliza.

And the more they talked, the more he hated himself for trying. It felt wrong. Disingenuous. Like he was pretending to be someone else, like he was putting on a mask. He couldn't stop thinking about the guy wearing his fucking clothes. His shirts, his jacket. His girlfriend.

He was supposed to be moving on, getting even, proving something—he didn’t even know what. Instead, he finished his drink, threw cash on the bar, and walked out, leaving the woman behind.

At home, he drank more. He wasn't sure how much. Enough that when he collapsed onto the couch, his phone slipped from his hand, and he didn't remember typing the email.

Now, sitting at his desk, the memory of it clawed at the edge of his mind. He pulled out his phone with a slow, sinking feeling. Opened his email.

There it was.

Sent: 2:37 AM

Subject: yuo dnt even care
Eliza.
yuo lied. you fucking LIED.
who is he????
just tell me who he is. you owe me that.
i love you. i fucking love you. this is NOT how this was suposed to go.
you didnt even look me in the eye. not even ONCE.
fuck him. ill kick his ass. tell him to give me my shit back.
tell me this is a mistake.
please.

Derek stared at the screen, blood draining from his face.

"Fuck."