Her voice firms, even though her eyes shine. "You can't expect me to just erase the last three years. I can't snap my fingers and forget what you said. I was hurt. Betrayed. And I spent every single day of those three years either hating you or trying to."
Her voice wavers, but she doesn't stop. "Because even if you tell me now that you didn't mean any of it... I can't erase how it felt hearing those words. From you. God, Zach, you were my person. The one who made me feel beautiful on the days I hated my own reflection. And somehow, I believed you — every single time — because you said it like it was the truest thing in the world."
Her throat works, and she presses her hand to her chest like she's trying to hold herself together. "You made me believe I was perfect the way I was, and I did. I stopped caring what the other kids called me — fat this, fat that — because you told me not to. You gave me confidence, gave me something to stand on when everyone else was trying to knock me down."
Her breath shudders, sharp. "And maybe that's why it cut so deep. Because when the person who built you up is the same person who tears you down, it's like having the ground ripped out from under you. Like freefalling with nothing to grab onto."
Her voice cracks, low and hoarse. "You didn't just hurt me, Zach. You wrecked me. You left scars I'm still trying to smooth out three years later. And the worst part? I let you. Because I loved you. God, I've loved you since we were kids, since you were the boy who made me laugh until I cried and stayed up with me until I fell asleep. I loved you so stupidly, so completely, that Inever thought you could break my heart. And then you did — in the worst way possible."
My chest aches so hard it feels like someone's squeezing it in a vice. Every word out of her mouth lands like a punch, and I deserve every single one.
My throat works, tight, but no sound comes out. My hands curl into fists against my knees — not out of anger, but because if I don't do something with them, I'll grab her and pull her back to me, consequences be damned.
God, I hate that I'm the reason she feels this way. The reason she ever doubted herself. The reason her voice shakes when she says she loved me.
She... loved me?
Since we were kids?
The thought slams into me so hard it feels like my brain short-circuits.
What?
No, seriously —what?
Fuck.
Just how dense as shit was I back then? How did I miss this?
All this time, she loved me —me— and I was too blind to see it?
I feel like I've been sucker punched and handed a gift at the same time, my chest so tight it's hard to breathe.
And worse — or maybe better — is the sudden, gut-wrenching thought that if I'd just told her how I felt back then, she would've been mine. We could've been happy. Together. Dating. Still dating.
Not wasting three years apart, both of us pretending we were fine when we were both miserable.
I drag a hand down my face, slow, like I can wipe away the guilt choking me. It doesn't budge. It just sits heavy in my chest, hot and suffocating, until it feels like I can't breathe.
No more.
I shoot to my feet, legs tense, the motion sharp like it's fueled by something that's been coiled too tight for too long.
Every nerve in me is screaming to move — to close the space, to do something before this moment slips through my fingers.
I've already let three years slip away — three years I can't get back — because I kept my mouth shut when I should've told her how I felt.
And if I ever get another shot at a second chance, I have to take it — grab it with both hands — likenow.
I march toward her, eating up the space between us.
Her lashes flutter, fast, like she can't keep up with how close I'm getting. Her breath stutters, chest rising and falling quicker with each step I take.
I don't stop. Can't. I'm done with all this distance between us. Done with letting it feel like a canyon I can't cross.
"Wha... what are you doing?" she asks, voice tripping over itself, soft and breathless — not scared, just caught completely off guard.
She takes a small step back, but I keep coming, until there's barely any space left at all.
