Bailey Glass POV:

"The number you are trying to reach has been blocked." The notification on August' s phone, unheard by me, was my final declaration. My last act of self-preservation.

I sat in the waiting room at the hospital, my phone buzzing relentlessly in my purse. I knew it was August. I could feel his frantic energy through the vibrations. But I didn't answer. I didn't even look. I just let it ring, then blocked his number. Then, I deleted him from my social media, severing the last digital ties. A strange, liberating calm washed over me. It was done. Truly, finally done.

Just as my name flashed on the screen, indicating it was my turn, a figure burst through the swinging doors of the private clinic. August. He scanned the room, his eyes frantic, then landed on me.

He walked over, his expression a mix of relief and anger. He reached for my arm, a familiar gesture of ownership, but I flinched away before he could touch me.

"Bailey," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Why aren't you answering your phone? Why did you block me?"

"I don't owe you an explanation, August," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion.

He scoffed, a nervous habit. "Don't be dramatic. What's wrong? Are you sick?" A flicker of genuine concern crossed his face. "Is it serious?"

"No," I said, rising to my feet. "I'm fine. I'm just here for a check-up."

He grabbed my wrist, his grip surprisingly tight. "A check-up? What kind of check-up? Bailey, tell me what's going on." There was a hint of desperation in his voice.

"It's nothing," I said, trying to pull my hand away. "Just a routine thing."

"Routine?" His eyes, usually so expressive, were clouded with confusion. "You never come here for 'routine' check-ups. Are you hiding something from me?" His voice hardened, a hint of accusation creeping in.

"It's none of your business anymore, August," I said, my voice rising slightly.

"None of my business?" He laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Everything about you is my business, Bailey. We're together."

"We're not," I corrected him, my voice firm. "We broke up. You remember? Two days ago. In our apartment. Or rather, my apartment now."

His face darkened. "Don't be ridiculous. You say that every time we fight. It's just a phase. Let's talk about it, properly, when you're not... whatever this is." He gestured vaguely at the clinic, implying I was being irrational.

My name flashed again, brighter this time. "Bailey Glass, Dr. Evans will see you now."

"I have to go," I said, pulling my arm free. I didn't look at him, just marched towards the door.

He followed, his footsteps heavy behind me. "Bailey, wait! I'm coming in with you."

I reached the door, pushing it open. Just as I stepped inside, I turned, meeting his gaze. "No, you're not," I said, my voice cold and clear. Then, I slammed the door shut, leaving him on the outside, exactly where he belonged.

Bailey Glass POV:

"No, you're not," I said, my voice cold and clear. I slammed the door shut, the sound echoing the finality of my decision.

Inside, Dr. Evans, a kind-faced woman with a gentle smile, looked up from her notes. "Bailey! Good to see you. Who was that rather agitated gentleman outside?"

I managed a weak smile. "Just… my ex-boyfriend."

Dr. Evans raised an eyebrow, a knowing look in her eyes. She and I had built a rapport over the past few years, a relationship that extended beyond typical doctor-patient boundaries. She knew my history, my anxieties, my struggles. She'd been my silent confidante, my medical anchor.

"Ex-boyfriend?" she repeated, her smile widening genuinely. "Well, that's excellent news! Congratulations, dear."

"Thank you," I said, a small, genuine warmth spreading through me. Her approval, her understanding, meant the world.

"So," she said, tapping her pen on her notepad. "How are we feeling today? Any more of those… intrusive thoughts? The racing heart? The constant worry?"

I shook my head. "No. Not really. I mean, yes, there's still some residual sadness, of course. But the panic attacks… they've stopped. The constant knot in my stomach… it's gone."

She nodded, a soft smile on her face. "That's wonderful, Bailey. Truly wonderful."

I remembered the early days of my therapy, the raw honesty I' d poured out to her. How August' s casual dismissals of my feelings had festered into deep-seated self-doubt. The countless times he'd called me "dramatic" or "overly sensitive" when I tried to express my fears about his flirtations and his growing distance. "You're making a mountain out of a molehill, Bailey," he'd say, his tone condescending. "Why are you always so… neurotic?" Those words, repeated over and over, had carved grooves of insecurity into my soul. They had eroded my sense of self-worth.

"You have generalized anxiety disorder, Bailey, with significant depressive episodes," she'd told me gently, after months of tests and conversations. "And your anxiety is particularly triggered in intimate relationships."

She'd delved into my past, uncovering the roots of my insecurity. My father, gone too soon. My mother, beautiful and flighty, chasing after one man after another, leaving me with relatives for months, sometimes years, at a time. The desperate need to be "good" and "useful" to earn her love. The ultimate betrayal when she finally remarried and started a new family, leaving me behind for good.

Then, my first serious boyfriend in college. He cheated on me, then blamed me for it. "You were too needy, Bailey," he'd said, a twisted echo of August's words. "You drove me away." That had cemented my fear: that I was inherently unlovable, that my need for connection was a flaw, something to be ashamed of.

Dr. Evans had helped me see the pattern. "Bailey, your partners have been… less than ideal. They've exploited your tendency to seek validation. What August is doing, his emotional neglect, his gaslighting… it's not normal. It' s emotionally abusive. And it's exacerbating your existing trauma."

She' d given me two choices: remove myself from the source of anxiety, or learn to cope with it. I chose the former. I opened my flower shop, pouring my energy into something beautiful and tangible, something that was mine. And then, I chose to leave August.

"I feel… good, Dr. Evans," I said, a genuine smile now gracing my lips. "Better than I have in years. The shop is thriving. I'm connecting with people. And I'm not constantly waiting for a shoe to drop."

She flipped through her notes, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Given your progress, Bailey, and your current emotional state, I think it's safe to say… we can start weaning you off the medication. You've done the work, my dear."

Relief washed over me, warm and sweet. It wasn't just the end of a relationship. It was the end of an illness. The end of a chapter.

"That's wonderful news, Dr. Evans," I said, my voice thick with emotion.

She stood, extending her hand. "Go live your life, Bailey. You deserve all the happiness in the world."

Bailey Glass POV:

"Go live your life, Bailey. You deserve all the happiness in the world." Dr. Evans' words were a benediction, a blessing I hadn' t realized I desperately needed.

I walked out of her office, a lightness in my step I hadn't felt in years. The air outside, usually heavy with the exhaust of LA traffic, felt crisp, clean. August was gone. He must have returned to whatever urgent crisis had called him away from his attempts to corner me. His priorities, as always, were clear.

A nurse, a sweet woman I'd come to know over my many visits, stopped me at the desk. "Ms. Glass? Mr. Carter left a message for you before he left."

My heart gave a faint thud. Here it comes. The last gasp of a dying relationship. "Oh?"

"He said… he had to go back to set, but he'd make it up to you for your birthday. And that he loved you very much." She smiled, a little wistfully. "You're so lucky, Ms. Glass. He's so handsome, and he clearly adores you."

A bitter laugh threatened to escape. Lucky? Adored? I just managed a tight, polite smile. "Thank you for the message."

Lucky? I thought. I didn't feel lucky. I felt like a fishbone stuck in someone's throat. A persistent, painful irritation that wouldn't go away. But now, it was gone. The bone was out. And I was finally free.

The next morning, I boarded my flight. Back to Portland. Back to Faith.

Faith. My best friend. My rock. She was waiting for me at the arrival gate, a huge smile on her face, her arms open wide. She owned a popular bar in downtown Portland, a successful businesswoman who was as fierce as she was loyal.

I ran to her, wrapping my arms around her in a bone-crushing hug. "Oh, Faith," I whispered, burying my face in her shoulder.

"Took you long enough, you idiot," she said, her voice gruff, but I could feel the tremor in it. She pulled back, holding me at arm's length, her eyes scanning my face. "You look like hell. But… better."

"I am better," I said, a genuine smile forming.

"Good. Because that ass-hat August Carter never deserved you," she declared, loud enough for a few curious passersby to turn their heads. "The minute I met him, I knew he was trouble. All charm and no substance."

"You're the only one who ever said that, you know," I said, a fond smile on my face. "Everyone else thought he was Prince Charming."

Faith snorted. "Everyone else is blind. Listen, he' s going to regret losing you. Mark my words. He' s going to crawl back, begging. And you, my dear, are going to be too busy living your best life to even notice."

Her words were a balm to my raw soul. Faith had always been my fierce protector, my unwavering champion. Her certainty, her belief in me, was infectious. The last vestiges of doubt began to crumble.

"Now," she said, linking her arm through mine, her smile mischievous. "Let's get you home. And then, we're going out. Tonight, we're celebrating your freedom. We're going to erase every single memory of that toxic waste dump of a relationship. And you're going to remember what it's like to laugh, to flirt, to just be."