Just got back from a weekend trip. No phone, no notifications, no Tyrone's pathetic view count climbing. Just me, a bottle of wine, and the quiet realization that his entire existence is a footnote I've already moved past. I fucked someone new on the balcony of my rental, the ocean below, his hands on my hips while I thought about nothing but the rhythm of the waves. Tyrone's little blog posts? They're not even good enough to use as kindling. I'm building a new life, and he's not even a ghost in it—he's a smudge I wiped off the glass.