In many ways, I understand her. I understand the loneliness. I understand the fear of letting people in. Of wondering if you evendeserveto be let in yourself.
I swallow, then say, “Not caring doesn’t make you any less lonely.”
That seems to strike something, but it’s small. Barely there. Just the tiniest twitch in her jaw.
I tilt my head, watching her. “Be my friend,” I say before I can talk myself out of it.
Kym’s head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing slightly, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m joking. Like she’s expecting me to laugh, to take it back.
But I don’t.
Instead, I just watch her, waiting.
She blinks, then shakes her head slightly, as if she’s annoyed with me—or maybe with herself. “Why?” she asks, and her voice isn’t sharp or defensive. It’s quiet. Almost careful.
Then, before I can answer, she adds, “Why do you care so much?”
And there it is.
The kind of question that doesn’t come from someone who doesn’t care—it comes from someone whowantsto care but is terrified to.
Then, finally, I glance at her, offering the smallest smile. “Because I know what it’s like when no one does.”
Her lips part slightly, then press back together, like she’s thinking of something to say but doesn’t trust herself to say it.
I don’t push her to.
Then, barely above a breath, she says, “Okay.”
And just like that, she moves. One second, she’s next to me, and the next, she’s five steps ahead.
No pause. No further explanation. She just picks up speed, boots hitting the pavement harder, shoulders squared.
For a second, I just stand there, blinking.
“Hey!” I shout, breaking into a jog.
Kym doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down.
I run faster. “Wait—is that—”
She keeps moving, her beret slightly crooked, her hands deep in her coat pockets, her posture perfect as always.
I laugh, breathless, picking up my pace. “Hey!Is that ayes?”
Still, no answer.
When I finally catch up, I swear I see the corner of her mouth lift—just a little, just enough. And I don’t know if she’s smiling because she thinks I’m ridiculous, or maybe because she’s actually enjoying this.
She doesn’t answer when I ask her the same question again, but she doesn’t sayno.
I’ll take that as a win.
THIRTY-TWO
By the time we reach the gate to Kai’s house I’m already regretting every life decision that led me here.
The thing is a fortress.
