Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 338

Don’t think of bad things.

Mila fought to push away the dark memories and haunting fears welling up inside her. She forced herself instead to recall the good things she’d lived through—the moments of light.

She remembered sharing a bed with her great-aunt as a child, learning to sew by her side, hearing her gentle voice say, “There’s a whole world waiting for you—don’t let your childhood keep you trapped.” Those words had taken root deep in Mila’s heart, growing wild and strong, helping her break free when she needed it most.

She remembered her high school teacher—the one who took her in after she ran away from home, put her on a train to Kingsford, worried she wouldn’t have enough to eat or a roof over her head. That teacher had quietly slipped a wad of cash into Mila’s backpack—her first taste of real kindness, of love that felt solid and heavy in her hands.

It was worth more than gold, heavier than mountains and oceans.

She remembered late-night talks and laughter with Miranda, sharing new foods, swapping stories, leaning on each other—feeling, for the first time, that someone truly cared, that she had a friend who’d catch her if she fell.

She remembered meeting Forrest, their adventures together, his patient guidance with her studies, the gentle way he looked after her. For the first time, she realized that men could be gentle too.

She remembered the college mentor who cared about her future, who believed in her, who treated her well.

…

A stranger’s hand helping her up after she’d been knocked down.

Countless smiling faces turned her way.

…

So many memories. Tears streamed down Mila’s face as she counted them, one by one. And the terror that threatened to swallow her whole began to ebb. Over and over, she thought—

How lucky I am.

All those helping hands reaching out to her, keeping her from falling, carrying her forward. Even if those were the only good things she’d ever have, they would be enough—a life worth living.

She’d already had more luck than most.

She’d survived so many trials before; she would survive this one too.

The chain rattled as she got to her feet and began to move through the empty, pitch-dark room. She danced slowly, humming a cheerful tune under her breath, doing everything she could to hold onto the feeling of happiness.

Her soul danced wildly, the clang of the chain her only music, her voice ringing out through the darkness—free, alive.

But every song ends. People get tired.

The darkness never faded, and dawn never came. Time lost all meaning. One by one, those precious, happy memories were drowned by fear and hallucinations, blurred and forgotten, destroyed by endless night. In the end, Mila broke.

She lost her mind.

She wandered the room, talking to herself, until she couldn’t even hear her own voice anymore. The chain thrashed and clanged—that was the only sound left to her.

She couldn’t hear herself.

She heard so many things—so many voices—but never her own.

She slammed her head against the wall, clawed at her skin, even tried to wrap the chain around her neck—anything to feel real pain, to remind herself she was alive, even if the metallic scent of blood filled the air.