I can’t sleep.
I keep living it over and over.
The way your weight pressed down on me, the sound of the ref’s hand hitting the mat.
One. Two. Three.
And then nothing.

Not the belt being handed to you.
Not the crowd.
Just your face.
Like you’d already decided I didn’t matter anymore.

Eric… we’ve been tied together for years.
First in the gyms, running the same drills, taking the same bumps until we couldn’t breathe.
Both of us under his eye, trying to be good enough for the almighty Eric Dane.
I always thought that was our bond — we understood what it was like to come up in that shadow.
To survive it.

And God, the nights after shows.
Dirty diners at 3 AM.
Sharing fries. Talking about how one day we’d be the ones setting the pace, not just following.
You held my hand once in one of those parking lots. I don’t even remember why.
It wasn’t love, not really, but it was something real. Something I thought was ours.

And now?
Now I don’t even know if any of it was real.
If I was just convenient until you had something to gain.
Did you laugh about it in your head before you did it? Did you tell yourself I’d forgive you because that’s who I am?

The belt hurts, but it’s not the wound.
Losing the WrestleZone title stings, sure — but belts come and go.
You don’t.
You were supposed to be permanent. The one I could trust in a business where no one can trust anyone.

I keep asking myself if I missed the signs.
The way you stopped calling.
The way your eyes shifted whenever the Foundry was mentioned, like you were already somewhere else.
Did you know, even then?

You didn’t just roll me up, Eric.
You rolled up every memory, every mile, every night we swore we’d never become like them.
And you pinned it to the mat.

I don’t know how to come back from this.
Not as a wrestler, not as a friend.
I feel hollow.
I feel stupid.
And worst of all, I feel alone.