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Story: When Love Wasn’t Enough
Beckham Smith had not returned home in three days.
There was not a single message from him.
Tonight was cold; the rain tapped on the window, and I curled up under the blanket, shivering.
My hands and feet were freezing, but my face was burning—I had a fever.
I clutched my phone and read through each message I had sent him.
“Beckham, are you coming home today?”
“Beckham, where have you gone?”
“Beckham, why won’t you answer me?”
“I’m very worried about you.”
I scrolled through our previous conversations.
He had never gone so long without responding to me.
My phone buzzed just as my eyes stung and I felt dizzy.
I quickly opened my eyes, but it was not Beckham.
A red “1” appeared beside the contacts.
I tapped to check and discovered a friend request from a girl’s profile picture.
Feeling uneasy, I clicked on it.
Her feed read, “Beckham is with me.”
My mind went blank, and panic spread through my chest.
I didn’t want to add a stranger, and I wanted to trust Beckham, but before I knew it, I had clicked “accept.”
When I accepted, intending to ask who she was, her response came immediately.
She sent a photo, which I opened.
Beckham Smith, who had been missing for three days, was found lying peacefully with his eyes closed and shirtless on what appeared to be a girl’s bed.
I stared at the picture in disbelief, zooming in on every detail, desperately looking for something, anything, to show it wasn’t him.
But I didn’t find anything.
That was him.
I frantically started messaging her, demanding to know who she was and why Beckham was with her, but my messages were like stones thrown into the sea–no response, just silence.
That night, I sat on my bed and stared into space until dawn.
I finally fell asleep as the first light of dawn appeared.
My head throbbed, my lips were dry and cracked, and I slept restlessly.
I had a nightmare where Beckham was holding a woman in his arms.
She leaned into him, looking playful and sweet, and he smiled down at her with warmth.
His eyes were very tender.
I stood in front of them, desperate, trying to separate them, but Beckham shoved me away with no pity.
I stumbled to the ground, and he looked at me with disgust, his voice cold as ice.
“You’re so shameless,” he remarked.
I awoke abruptly, the pain still gripping my chest; I reached up to touch my face and felt wetness on my fingers.
I had been crying, and Beckham would no longer be there to console me.
Ding.
Another message notification in my messenger.
I opened it, and it was her again.
This time, she sent multiple photos, not just one.
I clicked on each, torturing myself with the images.
I noticed Beckham, dressed in a dishevelled shirt, leaning against the girl.
She was stunning, her eyes sparkling like crescent moons as she smiled for the camera.
Another photo I saw showed the girl taking a picture in front of a mirror, with Beckham standing beside her, his arm possessively wrapped around her waist.
There was not a single message from him.
Tonight was cold; the rain tapped on the window, and I curled up under the blanket, shivering.
My hands and feet were freezing, but my face was burning—I had a fever.
I clutched my phone and read through each message I had sent him.
“Beckham, are you coming home today?”
“Beckham, where have you gone?”
“Beckham, why won’t you answer me?”
“I’m very worried about you.”
I scrolled through our previous conversations.
He had never gone so long without responding to me.
My phone buzzed just as my eyes stung and I felt dizzy.
I quickly opened my eyes, but it was not Beckham.
A red “1” appeared beside the contacts.
I tapped to check and discovered a friend request from a girl’s profile picture.
Feeling uneasy, I clicked on it.
Her feed read, “Beckham is with me.”
My mind went blank, and panic spread through my chest.
I didn’t want to add a stranger, and I wanted to trust Beckham, but before I knew it, I had clicked “accept.”
When I accepted, intending to ask who she was, her response came immediately.
She sent a photo, which I opened.
Beckham Smith, who had been missing for three days, was found lying peacefully with his eyes closed and shirtless on what appeared to be a girl’s bed.
I stared at the picture in disbelief, zooming in on every detail, desperately looking for something, anything, to show it wasn’t him.
But I didn’t find anything.
That was him.
I frantically started messaging her, demanding to know who she was and why Beckham was with her, but my messages were like stones thrown into the sea–no response, just silence.
That night, I sat on my bed and stared into space until dawn.
I finally fell asleep as the first light of dawn appeared.
My head throbbed, my lips were dry and cracked, and I slept restlessly.
I had a nightmare where Beckham was holding a woman in his arms.
She leaned into him, looking playful and sweet, and he smiled down at her with warmth.
His eyes were very tender.
I stood in front of them, desperate, trying to separate them, but Beckham shoved me away with no pity.
I stumbled to the ground, and he looked at me with disgust, his voice cold as ice.
“You’re so shameless,” he remarked.
I awoke abruptly, the pain still gripping my chest; I reached up to touch my face and felt wetness on my fingers.
I had been crying, and Beckham would no longer be there to console me.
Ding.
Another message notification in my messenger.
I opened it, and it was her again.
This time, she sent multiple photos, not just one.
I clicked on each, torturing myself with the images.
I noticed Beckham, dressed in a dishevelled shirt, leaning against the girl.
She was stunning, her eyes sparkling like crescent moons as she smiled for the camera.
Another photo I saw showed the girl taking a picture in front of a mirror, with Beckham standing beside her, his arm possessively wrapped around her waist.