And when she’s ready, I’ll be right here, standing in the wreckage I made, owning every piece of it.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
ROSE
Afew days pass, but the ache doesn’t soften the way people say it does. It just changes shape.
It settles deeper, becomes something heavier and quieter, something I carry instead of something that knocks the breath out of me. I go back to uni because routine feels safer than sitting alone with my thoughts, even if I’m subject to whispers behind hands and pointed stares. I sit in lectures and take notes I barely remember writing. I keep my head down, my headphones in, my circle deliberately small. Clara checks in constantly, hovering without smothering, bringing coffee I don’t ask for and sitting beside me in silence when words feel like too much.
I don’t talk about Callum unless she asks directly. And even then, I keep it surface-level. Because if I open that door fully, I don’t know if I’ll be able to close it again. The statement changed things and not in the way I expected.
Reading it didn’t bring relief. It didn’t bring clarity. It brought a different kind of pain, a sharper, more complicated type. Knowing the truth doesn’t erase what it cost me by not knowing it sooner. It doesn’t undo the feeling of being looked at and chosen under false pretences, even if his intentions weren’t malicious. It doesn’t fix the way my chest still tightens when I see his name trending, or when someone mentions playoffs, orwhen I pass the rink and feel like I’m skirting the edge of a life I almost had.
I believe him. That’s the worst part. I believe that he panicked and that he hates himself for it. And I truly don’t think that he ever meant to hurt me. But believing him doesn’t mean I’m ready to forgive him, or if I ever will.
So I protect myself the only way I know how, by shrinking my world until it feels manageable. Uni. Home. Work. Clara. Sleep. Repeat. No scrolling. No comment sections. No re-reading messages I already know by heart.
I haven’t replied to Callum. Not because I don’t care, but because I care too much.
Every time my phone buzzes, my heart jumps traitorously before I remind myself why I’m doing this. Space isn’t punishment. It’s survival. I need to know what’s left of me without him in the centre of everything. I need to know whether the ground under my feet is solid on its own, or if it only ever felt that way because he was there.
By the time the weekend creeps closer, I’m exhausted in a way sleep doesn’t touch.
That’s how I end up agreeing to an extra shift.
The shop is a short walk from the rink. On game days it’s pandemonium with fans pouring in, last-minute scarf purchases, kids begging their parents for merch. Today isn’t a game day, just the low hum of anticipation that settles over the area when playoffs loom close enough to taste.
I tie my apron on and focus on the familiar motions. Folding. Restocking. Smiling politely. It’s easier to be Rose-the-employee than Rose-the-girl-who-got-her-heart-broken-in-public. And for a while, it works.
The bell above the door chimes and I glance up automatically, already leaning halfway into my customer-service smile.
It freezes on my face.
Talia stands just inside the doorway. She looks immaculate, as always with her hair glossy, makeup flawless, and coat draped just right around her body. She scans the shop like she owns it, like she’s stepping onto a stage she knows how to command.
My stomach drops. For a split second, I consider pretending I didn’t see her. Ducking into the back and asking my manager to handle it. But something stubborn and tired settles in my chest instead. So I straighten myself and pull my shoulders back. This is my space, not hers.
She spots me then, lips curving slowly. “Well,” she says, voice light and amused. “This is… quaint.”
I say nothing. I busy myself with the display in front of me, hands steady through sheer force of will.
She strolls closer, heels clicking softly against the floor. “I wondered if you’d be here.”
That gets my attention. I look up, meeting her gaze head-on. “If you’re looking to shop, let me know. Otherwise, I’m working.”
She laughs, delighted. “Still trying to act like I don’t get under your skin. Cute.”
My jaw tightens. “What do you want, Talia?”
She tilts her head, studying me like a puzzle she’s already solved. “I wanted to check in. See how you’re holding up.”
“I’m fine,” I lie flatly.
“Are you?” she asks, eyes flicking over me, sharp and assessing. “You look tired.”
I bite back the urge to snap. “If you’re done?—”
“Oh, I won’t be long,” she says smoothly. “I just thought you should hear it from me.”
