“You’re the one behind the comments,” I say, watching him. “The hate threads. The stalking.”
He freezes.
“Oh,” I add lightly. “That look answers that.”
“You don’t get to call me a stalker,” he snaps. “Not after everything you?—”
“Careful,” I say. “You’re starting to sound obsessed.”
His jaw works. “I cared.”
“That’s worse.”
Silence stretches—heavy, electric.
“I should leave,” he says, not moving.
“Yes,” I agree.
He still doesn’t.
I walk past him into the living room on purpose, turning my back like I trust him. Like I don’t know exactly what he is.
“Shae,” he says, softer. “We could still fix this.”
I turn. “Fix what?”
“This.” He gestures between us—the past, the power, the little lie he still feeds himself where he mattered. “You and me.”
“There is no you and me.”
“There was.”
I step closer again and drop my voice. “No. There was you thinking you mattered to me.”
His face flushes. “I risked everything.”
“For attention.”
“For you.”
“For the story you wanted to tell yourself.” I smile. “That you were the good guy.”
He laughs, bitter. “You’re cold.”
“I’m honest.”
A beat.
“You should read the letter again,” he says. “Your sister sounds a lot like you.”
That lands harder than he knows.
“You don’t know anything about my family,” I say.
“I know evil doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
I stare at him until he shifts.
