“That’s not the point!”
“Isn’t it?” he fires back softly. “Everything I wrote was true.”
My chest aches.
“So you just… what?” I demand. “You pretended to be someone else because you were too scared to be yourself?”
“Yes.”
The honesty disarms me.
“I was afraid you’d look at me and see only your best friend,” he says. “I was afraid I’d lose you if I crossed that line.”
“You crossed it anyway.”
He nods. “I know.”
I turn away, pressing my hands to the table. “You don’t get to decide what I feel.”
“I didn’t,” he says. “I just stopped hiding mine.”
That snaps something.
I spin back to him. “You manipulated me.”
“I loved you,” he counters. “I loved you before the letters. I loved you during them. I love you now.”
My breath catches.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Why?” he asks. “Because it makes this real?”
I step back. He follows.
“I trusted him,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“And he was you.”
“Yes.”
My eyes burn. “You took something from me.”
He shakes his head. “I gave you all of me. I just didn’t think you’d want it if you knew it was mine.”
Silence stretches between us.
Then I laugh—sharp, broken. “You’re unbelievable.”
His mouth tilts. “You’ve always said that.”
I shove his shoulder. He barely moves.
“You should’ve told me.”
“I was going to,” he says quietly. “Tonight.”
