Me:Yes. I’m done.
The typing bubble appears, disappears, appears again.
Miles:You think leaving fixes it?
Me:It fixes me.
There’s a long pause before his reply.
Miles:I never meant to hurt you, Chloe.
My throat tightens. I almost laugh.Never meant to hurt me?He hurt me before he even knew what I was to him.
I put the phone down and let it ring once when he tries to call. Then I silence it.
He can keep his guilt. I’ve got enough of my own.
The sun sets slow, painting the room in gold and gray. I light a candle, eat ramen straight from the pot, and sit on the floor because I don’t have a dining chair. It’s pathetic.
I don’t know what comes next. Maybe I’ll re-enroll somewhere else in a year. Or maybe I’ll just exist for a while, quietly, without needing anyone to see me.
It’s strange, how freedom feels both heavy and light.
Before bed, I pull out my journal. The one I swore I wouldn’t touch again. I flip past the pages filled with notes about Jamie’s smile, Miles’s voice, little sketches of cheer routines, and land on a blank page.
I write.
I’m not running this time. I’m choosing myself.
The letters are uneven, shaky.
I close the book, curl up under my blanket, and listen to the rain against the window. And then I fall asleep without knowing what the hell comes next.
21
Jamie
Thegameendsugly.
Miles takes his anger out on the ice, leaving the rink carved up and steaming. He’s faster, meaner, sharper than I’ve ever seen him—like he’s trying to bleed something out through his skates. Coach keeps yelling at him to rein it in, but Miles doesn’t even look up. He just goes.
The final whistle cuts through the air, and he slams his stick against the boards hard enough to splinter it. Everyone goes silent. He doesn’t apologize, doesn’t even look back. Just storms off toward the locker room, helmet dangling from his hand.
I let him go.
Our friendship’s hanging by a thread as it is. Every time I try to talk, we circle back to the same unspoken name. Chloe.
By the time we hit the bar that night—half the team squeezed into a booth, pitchers of beer sweating on the table—Miles is already three drinks deep and laughing too loud. The mask is back on. The ruthless, charming version of him that never cracks. The guys love it.
I don’t. I just sit there, watching him pour whiskey like water, watching the light die a little more in his eyes.
We won the game, so the mood’s high. It doesn’t matter to the rest of the team that we won by just a few points.
The sound system’s too loud, some girl’s sitting in Miles’s lap, and the room smells like sweat and fried food and victory.
But all I can think is—this isn’t how it’s supposed to feel.
Miles leaves after a while, no goodbye, just that empty glass spinning on the table.
