Ryan lifts his head from his cereal bowl when he sees me. “Hey, where are you?—”
I don’t even stop to answer him before bolting out the door.
I won’t let her walk away thinking any of this wasn’t real.
Not when it’s the realest damn thing I’ve ever had.
At first, I think she’s not going to open the door. She’ll tell me to go to hell, that she doesn’t want to see me, and I’ll sit on the dirty carpet flooring outside her dorm, because I don’t want to be anywhere that she isn’t. Because I want to talk this out. Because I want her.
But when she doesn’t reply, I breathe out a sigh and knock again. “Come on, Maisie. Please. Just… let me talk to you.”
A few seconds later, the door swings open and my heart fucking stops.
She’s standing there in an oversized hoodie—mine, I think—with the sleeves shoved up her forearms like she was fidgeting. Her hair’s twisted up in a messy bun, loose strands falling over her face. And her eyes—Jesus. Red and puffy. Like she’s been crying for hours. Like maybe she hasn’t stopped.
It hits me straight in the chest. Hard enough to knock the breath out of me.
Because I did that.
I made her look like this.
And the worst part? I didn’t even mean to. Didn’t know I could.
She just stares at me. Like she’s trying to decide if she wants to slam the door in my face.
“What are you doing here?” she asks finally.
Not angry. Not cold. Just… tired. Like she’s hanging on by a thread and praying I don’t cut it.
I clear my throat, trying to slow my pulse down. It’s still racing from running over here. From the way my stomach bottomed out when her name popped up on my phone and I realized exactly what she saw. What she knows now.
“You know why I’m here.” My voice sounds like it got dragged through gravel.
She crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re Six.”
The words slice clean through me.
I nod. Can’t even pretend otherwise. I’ve imagined this moment a hundred times. The first time I’d meet Cherry, finally see her face, hear her say my name. I just never imagined it would hurt this much.
“And you’re Cherry,” I say quietly.
She flinches, eyes squeezing shut, like the words hurt more than she expected. Maybe they do. Maybe hearing it aloud makes everything so much more real.
I take a cautious step forward.
She steps back.
Fuck.
“You let me tell you about yourself,” she says, voice fragile, eyes glued to the floor.
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“You let me miss you,” she adds, still avoiding my gaze. “And you just… said nothing.”
My fingers twitch at my sides, desperate to do something.
“I didn’t know how,” I admit, my voice rough, like it’s scraping its way out.
