His attention snaps to me. The sky’s burning around us, like even the sun can’t look away.
“How long have you known?”
“I put it together the day before we flew out. I didn’t know how to tell you?—”
“You didn’t know how to tell me?” His voice is quieter now. “You’ve known this whole time. The jokes. The confessions. Thetexts. Youknewwhen we—” He stops short, swallows. “Jesus, Rorie.”
He starts walking.
Not fast.
Not storming off.
Just walking.
His shoulders are tight, hands curled at his sides.
“Nolan,” I call, following. “Wait—please, let me explain.”
“I’m not running,” he says, without looking back. “I just… I need a minute to process this.”
I stop walking. Chasing him would be selfish. He deserves that minute.
My chest hurts. I want to scream that none of it was a game to me. That I was scared. That I’mstillme.
But he’s gone, swallowed by the curve of the shoreline, the dying sun catching the back of his neck.
And all I can do is stand there, sand in my toes, heartbreak in my heart, wondering if I just lost the one person who made the ground feel steady again right when I’d finally stopped gripping the walls.
CHAPTER 43
TEXTUALLY, FRACTURED
NOLAN
The sky isablaze with fire and gold, and for once, it mirrors the way my insides burn, not with anger, but with the sick heat of realization. Like I’ve walked into a room where everyone else already knows the secret, and I’m the last to figure it out. The last to understand what she’s afraid of. The last to see her. And the last person she’ll ever trust to hold it all.
Standing barefoot on the beach, the tide pulls at my ankles, warm and constant. The wind lashes salt against my skin, but it’s not what stings.
That award goes to Textually Frustrated, i.e. Rorie Adams.
Digging my phone out of my pocket, I pull up the contact.
No photo. Fake name. Just two words that somehow carried a whole damn world.
For a long moment, I just stare at it, remembering the first message. The sarcasm. The wit.
My mind fast-forwards to the way she slipped into my nights like she belonged there. Her words filled the silence and made it bearable. She knew exactly what to say. And she was always, always her.
And I was me.
I swipe through our old texts, thumb dragging slow. It’s all so glaringly obvious now—the humor, the stubbornness, how she cared too much even when she pretended not to.
Every word.
Every joke.
Every late-night confession…
