I didn't spend three years away—sweating through brutal workouts, choking down kale salads, counting macros like a math-obsessed lunatic—just to fold at the sight of him. I didn't burn through all that anger, that heartbreak, just to build a stronger, healthier version of myself... only to end up trembling behind a curtain like the same fat, insecure girl I used to be.
No. Hell no.
Because yeah, I lost the weight. But it wasn't just pounds I shed—it was the doubt. The self-hate. The constant begging for his attention. And every mile I ran, every salad I forced down, every muscle ache that made me want to quit—it all reminded me I didn't need him.
That whatever I felt for him? It's gone.
I'm not that pathetic girl anymore.
And thanks to his cruel words that day—the ones that ripped me open—I finally woke up from my stupid delusions.
He knocked me down, sure. But I got back up. Different. Stronger. Changed. Fueled by him. By that pain. By the reminder that I will never, ever let him break me again.
My inner sass monster leans back with a smirk.So... thanks for the character development, dumbass.
I push off the floor and I flop onto my bed. My suitcase is still sitting there, wide open, clothes spilling out like it's mocking me. Right. Packing. And remembering why I'm even doing it.
The truth is, I've been living in New York these past three years—studying at NYU. One of the best schools in the country. I built something there. New friends. New routines. A new version of me. And best of all—no Zach-shaped heartbreak lurking around every corner.
But two months ago? Everything flipped. One phone call, and suddenly none of that mattered.
A drunk driver plowed into Mom's car on her way back from the grocery store. The second Dad's voice cracked, I thought I lost her.
I was on the next flight home. Finals had just ended. And when I saw her—bruised, casted, broken but alive—I knew I had to move back. Be here. Take care of her.
Because if I stayed in New York, even with just one year left to finish my degree, I wouldn't have been able to focus. Not when I'd be worrying myself sick every day, wondering how she was doing. I couldn't spend my life refreshing my phone, booking last-minute flights every time the panic gnawed at me.
So yeah, I went back to New York for a week. Packed up my apartment. Signed the paperwork. NYU's curriculum lined up well enough with Ridgewater's, credits transferred clean, and thanks to my parents' long ties with the university, the transition was... surprisingly smooth. I won't lose any time—I'll still graduate on schedule.
Which means: I'm officially back in Florida.
Even if it means risking the one thing I swore I'd never do—cross paths with Zach Westbrook again.
Ugh. Just the thought makes me queasy.
But whatever. I'll deal. I'll avoid him. I'll map out the entire campus if I have to. He lives in the rink, I'll live in the Performing Arts department. Easy. Minimal chance of collision.
Besides... he doesn't even know I'm back.
The only person who does is his sister, Sam. She saw me with my parents when Mom finally got discharged two weeks ago. And for the past two weeks, she's been blowing up my phone, begging me to room with her this fall.
I tried to say no—believe me, I did.
But then she pulled out her secret weapon. Those big puppy-dog eyes and that wobbly little pout. Ugh. Fatal combo. Westbrook siblings are going to be the death of me.
So yeah, I caved. We're going to be roommates. And Sam promised she wouldn't breathe a word to Zach about it.
Not that I trust her. If there's one thing Sam Westbrook cannot do, it's keep her mouth shut.
I shake my head. "Whatever. If he sees me, he sees me. If we cross paths, I'll just act like I don't know him. Pretend he doesn't exist. Easy."
...Right?
I groan, drag a pillow over my face, and flop harder.
Who am I kidding?
Senior year at Ridgewater U is about to start. And I can already tell—it's going to be hell.
