“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
Something inside me splinters.
“Is this—” I swallow. “Is this about the baby?”
His jaw ticks. “It’s about everything.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s not going to work. This was never supposed to be anything serious. It got out of hand.”
“Out of hand?” I repeat, voice rising. “You told me you wanted the real thing. I thought I meant something to you. And now it’s out of hand?”
He flinches like I struck him. But he doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t explain.
He just says, “I need you to leave.”
My heart falls through the floor.
I look at him, really look—at the man I let into every part of my life, every inch of my heart. And I see the wall he’s building brick by brick, faster than I can stop him.
“Do you not want the baby?” I whisper.
His silence is worse than a no.
I grab my coat with numb fingers. My heart’s in my throat, my stomach twisted into a cold, heavy knot.
I don’t know why he’s shutting down like this. I don’t know what I expected—a kiss, a nervous smile, maybe even a laugh—but not this.
Not silence. Not distance. Not retreat.
“I thought you’d be happy,” I whisper.
Max flinches.
But he doesn’t answer.
And that’s worse than anything he could’ve said.
I let myself out, the door clicking shut behind me like a gavel.
Outside, the city moves on. Horns honk. Neon flickers. The sky glows orange from light pollution and possibility.
But inside me?
Everything has gone still.
32
MAX
Thump-thump
Idon’t move for a long time.
The door closes with a softclick,but the silence that follows is brutal. It hits harder than anything she said tonight. Harder than the quiet disbelief on her face when I told her to leave.
I can still smell her perfume in the room. Warm and familiar, threaded with something sweet—like oranges and paper and a trace of vanilla. She always smelled like comfort. Like home.
