“This.” He gestured at my existence like it personally offended him. “The makeup. The attitude. That burnout you’re slumming with.”
“His name is Chase.”
“Right. Very original.” His smirk made me want to commit violence. “You’re not built for this kind of attention, Z. You don’t know how to handle it.”
“You mean the kind of attention you were giving Amber while we were still together?”
Direct hit. His face flickered before the smugness returned. “I made a mistake. But at least I didn’t completely reinvent myself to make a point.”
My throat closed. Words disappeared.
He stepped closer, voice dropping to that manipulative whisper he’d perfected. “Everyone can see what you’re doing. You’re having a breakdown and calling it empowerment. This version of you? It’s pathetic.”
Pathetic. The word hit like a slap.
I stared at him–this boy who’d held my hand through two years of movie dates and family dinners, who’d known exactly which buttons to press to make me doubt everything about myself.
“Just… be careful,” he said, like he was doing me a favor. “This won’t end well.”
I walked away without giving him the satisfaction of a response.
The rest of the day was a blur of whispers and sideways glances. Former friends suddenly fascinated by their shoelaces. Teachers who used to smile now looking concerned about my “choices.”
I skipped my locker, walked home under a sky too bright for how hollow I felt inside.
Mom was home but buried in hospital charts. I went straight to my room, sat on my bed, and stared at my phone for ten solid
minutes.
I didn’t want explanations. Didn’t want comfort. Didn’t want someone to tell me this was all part of growing up.
I wanted something real.
Opened a new message. Typed two words.
I wanted something real.
ɩ wanɩ comfort. Didn’t want someone to tell me this was all part of growing up.
Opened a new message. Typed two words:
Come get me.
Sent it before I could overthink it.
My phone buzzed thirty seconds later:
On my way.
