For a second, I’m still tracking her without meaning to—the swing of her backpack, Theo’s hand at her elbow, the way she doesn’t look back even once. Then the space where she was empties out, and the noise rushes in to fill it.
Laughter. Phones. Voices stacking until it’s just sound without shape.
My cheek throbs where Theo hit me. My knee screams where stone went straight through denim. My mouth tastes of blood and copper and something worse.
None of it matters.
I take one step after them and stop.
Not because I don’t want to go after her. Because I can feel it now—the line. The hard edge she drew when she said, “don’t touch me.”
The quad turns into an arena.
“Holy shit.”
“She dropped him.”
“Bro didn’t even swing back.”
“Is it true though? The bet thing?”
Phones are everywhere. I catch my own reflection in black screens—distorted, bleeding, smaller than I’ve ever been. Someone laughs too loudly. Someone else sayspredator, trying it on, seeing how it fits.
I swallow. It scrapes.
Across the quad, Isabelle is already gone. I could go after her.
The thought flashes—sharp, stupid—and dies.
The damage is done.
A guy in a BU hoodie slows as he passes, eyes flicking to my lip, my knee. He shakes his head.
“Some hat trick, O’Connor.”
His friend snorts.
Heat spikes in my chest. I force my hands open at my sides. Force myself to breathe.
The quad tilts. I drag a hand over my face.
“I love you. Fucking say it back, Wren. Say it back. Please.”
The memory slams into me, knocking the air clean out of my lungs.
She said she loves me.
And still walked away with her head high.
Laughter spikes again. Someone’s replaying the video out loud—my voice small and desperate, her standing over me, the crowd screaming.
My knee buckles. I catch myself before I go down again.
I stare at the ground until it stops moving.
When I look up, the path where she disappeared is empty. Just students crossing it, unaware. Ordinary. Monday-bright.
My throat tightens until breathing is work.
