Both chase each other around my mind until they blur into one big ball of lack of self-worth and doubt. Not worth it. Not worth his loyalty. Not worth his silence. Why would he even talk to a guy like that about me?
To boost?
To brag?
Isn’t that what the male students in my classes do? Gawk, brag, and talk vulgarly about their female classmates? Is that what Diego did? Distilled me down to a wager, a bet amongst his friends to see if he could score with his only professor.
He never told me that.
Never told me any of this.
He probably figured that if he had, it would ruin his chances of sleeping with me. And it would have. My tears fall harder as I comb over every detail of his betrayal.
When the driver approaches my apartment, my legs feel weak, like they can barely carry me inside. I mutter thank you and stumble up the steps, each one heavier than the last. Once inside, I collapse onto the couch, clutching a throw pillow to my chest.
I believed everything he said.
Every single word.
All lies.
All of them.
I let out a raw, anguished sob, burying my face in the pillow. The highs of this past week, the way he made me feel seen, understood, and accepted. It all feels like some cruel trick.
My phone buzzes in my purse, but I don’t move to get it. I already know it’s him. And I can’t bear to hear his voice, not when it’s the same one that made me feel special until it didn’t.
How could I be so stupid?
23
DIEGO
I sit at the back of the lecture hall, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, staring at her empty desk at the front of the room.
She is late.
It’s uncharacteristic of her. And entirely my fault. It feels odd sitting here waiting for her. The seat is uncomfortable and foreign, as if I no longer belong here. Maybe I never did.
When she dropped that Mr. Kahale on me last night before leaving, I knew I was fucked. Kicked back to the first day with her, no, actually, worse than that. She knew nothing about me on the first day, so I had advantages and hope. Today, I have none of that.
The classroom is already half full, and people’s idle chatter grates against my nerves as more filter in. I’ve been here for twenty minutes, usually too early in my book, but necessary so I don’t miss her. Not after last night, not after she walked out of my life with tears in her eyes and venom in her voice.
Kokami
I watch the door like it’s the only thing keeping me alive. My chest tightens with hope each time it swings open, only to deflate when it’s not her. I recheck my phone. Nothing. My calls to her, all eighteen of them, are still unanswered. My simple “call me” or “please give me a chance to explain” text messages were delivered but unopened.
The sound of her boots clicking on the floor reaches me before I see her. My head snaps up, and there she is. Her eyes are puffy, the faint traces of redness betraying the tears she must’ve cried. But even like this, she’s beautiful.
She always is.
She carries herself with the same grace and quiet confidence that drew me to her first. She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t even glance my way.
I can’t blame her.
The room fills up quickly. I stay rooted in my seat, helpless as more students pile in, forming an invisible wall between us. I want to get up, go to her, apologize, and explain until my throat is raw and she says we’re okay. But there’s no way to reach her without causing a scene, and the last thing I want is to embarrass her again.
I stay where I am, watching as she sets her bag down and begins arranging her notes on the desk. Her movements are efficient and methodical, as if she’s forcing herself to focus on the routine instead of everything else.
