Each word is fucking relentless in its honesty. I drag a hand over my face, exhaling hard. “Because it’s easier,” I blurt, and the second I say it, I know it’s a fucking cop-out. “It’s easier than admitting why I left in the first place.”
He stares at me, his features twisting in disbelief. “Easier… forwho?”
“For me,” I admit, because I’m a goddamn coward.
“I see,” he whispers. “I thought maybe we could at least be okay. Friends, or whatever version of that we used to be. But every time I try, you’re already halfway out the door.”
His words hit harder than they should. Or maybe they hit exactly as hard as they’re meant to. I don’t know anymore. I’ve lived four fucking years in a state of constant noise—women and men I don’t love, games I don’t care about, and friends I can’t talk to. But right now, on this goddamn porch, under these stupid string lights with him in front of me, I finally feel the cost of pretending.
He turns away again before I can say anything else, his arms wrapping tighter around himself as he stares out at the yard. “You used to talk to me, you know? We used to really talk, and not about the bullshit stuff. Not what you say to everyone else. Ialways felt… I don’t know. Like maybe I got to see the version of you nobody else did.”
The ache in my chest twists harder, almost painful. I swallow hard, and my voice comes out rougher than I mean. “You did.”
“Then what changed?” he whispers. “Because I sure as hell didn’t.”
I can’t stand the distance anymore, so I take a step closer. He doesn’t move or flinch away, but his back is still too straight, every muscle wound tight. “You didn’t change, but everything else did.”
He lets out a laugh that’s nothing like a laugh—just pain and exhaustion. “Was it that hard to say goodbye?”
God.
I take another breath and look away. I didn’t say goodbye because I couldn’t trust myself to walk away if I did. Because I was seventeen, selfish, and scared that one more minute with him would make me stay. And if I stayed… he wouldn’t be safe.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “It was.”
He turns around and looks stunned, and for a second, I think he might yell, cry, or do something that’ll break both of us open. But he just stands there, hurting, and I can feel the guilt I’ve carried for years start to choke me.
I edge closer again, my hip brushing the rail beside him, making myself close enough that if he wanted to, he could lean in. But he doesn’t.
“I cut contact because I didn’t know how to face you,” I admit. “Because staying away was the only way I could protect you.”
That makes his brow furrow, lips parting as confusion clouds his pretty face. “What are you talking about? Protect me from what?”
I shake my head, my jaw so tight I feel it crack. “I can’t tell you—” My voice breaks on it, real panic seeping in, because I know I’m losing him with every excuse I make.
“Forget it,” he says with a sigh and walks toward the sliding door. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not like it matters now.”
“Itdoesmatter.” My voice is too loud, and he flinches. He stops and doesn’t turn around, but I see his shoulders jerk up. “You matter. You always have.”
“You sure have a funny way of showing it,” he murmurs.
I stare at the back of his head, at the hair he still dyes blue, and I think about all the nights I’ve spent wishing I could go back and undo everything. But wishing doesn’t do shit. There’s nothing I can say that won’t sound hollow when he’s still carrying four years of silence.
I close the gap between us and step in front of him before I can talk myself out of it. My hands come up, cupping his face, thumbs sweeping gently against his jaw. His skin is cold from the night air, but his cheeks are hot, flushed with anger or embarrassment. There’s a shake in his breath, and my own heart stutters in response.
“I know I don’t get to ask for forgiveness,” I whisper. “I don’t even deserve this moment, let alone five more minutes. But I didn’t leave because of you.” I bite the already torn inside of my cheek again, searching his eyes for a flicker of belief. “You were—you still are—the best person I know.”
He looks up at me with those mismatched eyes that used to make my chest ache and still do, but now it’s worse. I can clearly see all the cracks I left in him. I can feel how hard he’s trying not to cry.
“Mien—”
“I missed you every single day I was gone. Every single fucking day, I woke up wishing I didn’t leave,” I swallow, the lump in my throat almost too big to get around. “I missed your voice. Your laugh. The way you used to look at me. Imissedyou, Blue.”
He inhales sharply, the sound gutting me all over again.
“But I was a coward,” I admit, because he deserves the truth even if it ruins me. “I stayed away because I thought that was better than breaking you. But I swear to you, I never meant to hurt you.”
His brow furrows, and he stares at me as if he’s trying to find a lie in there somewhere, trying to dissect the parts that might be excuses. I don’t blame him. I’d do the same if I were in his shoes. He’s spent four years trying to understand why I left, and all I’ve given him so far is half-truths and silence.
