Because my best friend—the boy I've loved for almost eighteen years—he wouldn't say that. He wouldn't rip me apart like this, with words so sharp they'll scar me forever.
Right?
...Right?
I don't move.
Ican'tmove.
My feet are glued to the wooden planks of the bridge, my body frozen like it's been turned to stone. My lungs forget how to work, my throat closes up. Every second that ticks by, his wordsreplay louder, sharper, carving deeper until I swear I can feel them etching into my bones.
I don't date fat chicks.
God.
It's Zach. Not some random jerk in the hallway. Not Cici with her poisoned tongue. Not Tyler with his smug smirk.
Zach. My Zach.
The same Zach who's been my protector, my defender, myeverything.The same boy who brushed off my insecurities, told me I was perfect just the way I was, made me believe for one stupid second that maybe, just maybe, he meant it.
And now? He's laughing with Jacob about how he'd never, ever see me as anything more than his fat, pathetic best friend.
It's like he reached into my chest, ripped my heart out with those hands I used to think were safe, and shredded it into confetti.
I stand there for another minute—maybe more, I don't know. Time's gone slippery, meaningless. My ears ring, my vision blurs, and my whole body feels like it's caving in on itself.
But then I force myself to move. Because if he sees me like this—eyes swollen, lips trembling, my whole soul hanging out raw—then it'll destroy me even more.
So I run.
As quietly, as quickly as I can, I tear myself away from his door and bolt across the bridge. My vision is a watery mess, my breaths ragged, but I don't stop until I'm back inside my room.
I slam the balcony door shut, lock it, then lock the bedroom door too. Just in case. Just in case he decides to follow, to come strolling in with his easy grin, like he didn't just gut me alive.
The boutonniere is still clutched in my fist. That stupid little flower I'd been so excited to give him. I don't even think—I just hurl it somewhere across the room. It hits the wall with a soft thud and falls, forgotten. Just like me.
Music. I need music. Something loud enough to drown out the echo of his voice. I crank the volume until Taylor Swift is screaming through my speakers, vibrating through my ribcage. But even that doesn't cover it. His words are louder than anything.
I crawl onto my bed, curl into the smallest ball I can make, and clutch myself like maybe I can hold the broken pieces together.
And I cry. God, I cry until my chest aches and my throat burns, until I'm choking on sobs I can't seem to swallow back.
Because what about last night?
What about the way his eyes locked on mine, like he wanted to close the distance? The way his hand pressed against my waist, pulling me closer? The way I almost—wealmost—kissed?
Was I hallucinating the whole damn thing?
Am I really that delusional?
Shit, maybe I am.
Maybe I've built up this fantasy for so long that I can't tell the difference anymore between what's real and what's just my hopeless, pathetic imagination.
And okay, yeah—it hurts to finally know. To finallyhear it from himthat he doesn't see me that way. That I've always been, and will always be, just the best friend. Nothing more.
That part? I could maybe live with. I could survive knowing my love was one-sided.
