Alpha Santa

Piper Redding “Block your ex so he can’t call you.” Dr. Fletcher’s voice rings through the room, sharp and final, like the toll of a bell. I feel it deep in my chest. She sits at the head of the circle, her legs crossed in a way that suggests she’s used to taking control. Her pen taps against the edge of her notebook with a rhythmic precision that only adds to the weight of her words. Her eyes scan the room, pausing on each woman for just a moment too long, her gaze measuring, almost as if she can see straight through us. “December is when he’ll crawl back,” she continues, her voice calm, almost too calm. “Don’t let him ruin your holidays like he’s done before.” I stiffen in my chair, gripping my phone so tightly it feels like my fingers are starting to numb. The way she talks, like it's so simple, so clear—block him and move on. Her words are supposed to feel empowering, but they only tighten the knot in my chest because I can’t even bring myself to hit the button. I clutch my phone like it’s a lifeline I’m afraid to let go of. “The only gift he ever gave you was worry and strife,” Dr. Fletcher says, her voice unwavering. “He’ll try to wish you a Merry Christmas, but don’t forget how he wrecked your life.” Around me, the other seven women nod, a mix of murmured agreement and shared sighs filling the room. I can’t bring myself to join them. My phone vibrates in my hand, and my breath catches. It’s not him—just a spam message—but my reaction makes it painfully clear how tightly he still has me wrapped around his finger. It’s pathetic, the way I still react to it. “I can’t block him,” I whisper, though no one asked me to speak. Dr. Fletcher’s sharp gaze lands on me, and the room goes quiet. “Why not?" I open my mouth to explain, but the words stick in my throat. How do I explain that even after everything, even after what I saw, part of me still hopes he’ll change? That maybe, just maybe, this time it’ll be different? I shake my head, my eyes dropping to my lap. “Does he deserve to have this much power over you?” Dr. Fletcher asks, her voice softer now but still pointed. I know what she’s getting at. I know what she wants me to say. But I can’t help the flood of memories that rush in—five years’ worth of them. I see his face as clearly as if he’s sitting across from me: Adam’s crooked smile, his dark hair that always looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, and the way his green eyes seemed to pierce straight through me. I remember how he used to hold my hand late at night, promising me forever, making me believe we were invincible. And then there’s that moment, the one I’ll never forget. Three weeks ago, he called me in the morning, his voice raspy, telling me he wasn’t feeling well. I cancelled my performance at a six-year-old party and decided to surprise him with soup and tea from his favourite café. I had no idea that I was about to be the one who got a surprise. When I arrived at his apartment, I used the spare key he’d given me, my heart already pounding with worry. But the moment I stepped inside, I heard it. Laughter. Soft, intimate voices coming from the bedroom. I froze in the doorway, the world tilting beneath me. My breath caught in my throat. I followed the sounds, my heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor, my heart beating faster with every step. When I reached his bedroom door, I saw him. Adam, the man I thought I knew, leaning over a woman with long blonde hair, her laughter mixing with his in a sound that felt like a punch to my gut. I dropped the soup, the lid popping off as it hit the floor. Both of them froze, their heads snapping toward the door—my gaze. For a long, painful moment, no one moved. “Piper,” Adam whispered, his face draining of colour as he scrambled off the bed. I didn’t wait for an explanation. I turned and ran, the sound of his voice calling after me barely registering over the roaring in my ears. He begged for forgiveness, swearing it was a mistake. That every guy does it. That it’s normal. And I believed him. At least, part of me did. It’s not like I was new to this. My first boyfriend cheated too. So did all of my friends’ boyfriends. Hell, even they cheated back, laughing about it like it was just some game. “Cheat back,” they told me. “That’s the only way to win.” But I couldn’t. That’s not me. So why does it keep happening to me? I was supposed to be different. I get compliments all the time—guys tell me I’m beautiful, I’m smart, I’m everything they want. But still, they cheat. They go for the girls who aren’t even as pretty as I am. I don’t get it. That’s why I’m here, sitting in this therapy group. I enrolled in secret, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I could finally learn how to stop letting him have this hold on me. But I’m not sure I’m ready to let go. “I still love him,” I admit quietly. The room falls silent. A couple of the women exchange looks, their expressions a mix of pity and disbelief. “Love?” Dr. Fletcher’s voice slices through the quiet. “Do you love him, or do you love the version of him you thought he was?” Her question lands like a slap, and I feel my cheeks heat. I don’t know how to answer. “I—” My voice cracks, and I choke on the words. “I can’t throw away five years. We’ve been together since college. I can’t just... let it all go.” “Why not?” Dr. Fletcher leans forward, her eyes never leaving mine. “Is it because of the time? The memories? Or are you just afraid of being alone?” I look down at my phone; the screen too bright in the dim light. I feel her words cut into me. The truth hurts more than I thought it would. I’m scared of being alone. He was the only one I had. My parents never cared about me—not really. I’ve always been alone, and now, I’m just... terrified of facing that reality. It's funny how I spend my life making people laugh, especially children, yet deep down, I feel sad and lonely, as if something is missing. “I just…” I trail off, gripping my phone even tighter. “I can’t delete his pictures. It feels like if I do, then all of it will be gone. Like none of it mattered.” “Does it matter if it’s keeping you stuck?” I don’t respond. Beside me, a woman in her forties with streaks of grey in her hair lets out a low sigh. “I used to think like that too,” she says, her voice full of quiet wisdom. “Until I realised that holding onto the past doesn’t keep you warm at night. It just keeps you stuck.” Her words sting, but they also settle deep inside me, like a truth I’m not ready to admit. “Think about it,” Dr. Fletcher says, her tone softening. “You’re holding onto someone who told you cheating is normal. Someone who thought so little of you that he didn’t just betray you—he made excuses for it. Is that really the kind of love you deserve?” The tears spill over now, hot and relentless. I wipe them away quickly, but it doesn’t stop the shaking in my hands. I know she’s right. Deep down, I know. But knowing it and acting on it are two very different things. Dr. Fletcher stands, walking to the middle of the circle. “I’m not saying it’s easy,” she says, her voice gentler now. “But the first step to healing is choosing yourself. Block him. Delete the pictures. And remind yourself that his opinion of you doesn’t define your worth.” I nod, though it feels like I’m doing it mechanically. I’m not ready yet, and I think she knows it. As the session wraps up, I linger in my chair while the others shuffle out. My finger hovers over Adam’s contact; the words Block this number? staring back at me like a challenge. Sighing, I step out into the cool evening air, my phone still gripped tightly in my hand. The sound of my heels against the pavement is the only noise in the quiet night. As I approach my car, I freeze.. There he is. Adam.