• • •
I see Cassian less and less.
And every time he pulls away it feels like I lose something I can’t name.
Something I almost had.
Something that had his thumb on my cheekbone and his forehead against mine and his breath warm against my mouth in the dark.
It would hurt less if I thought he was busy.
School. A job. Anything.
Anything but her.
But I know better. Because he still texts me.
Constantly.
Updates about what they’re doing. Where they’re going. Who they’re with.
Like I’m still part of his life.
Just — not that part.
The more he gives to her, the less there is left for me.
I wonder if he sneaks into her room at night.
I wonder if he lies next to her in the dark and reaches for her hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I wonder if he looks at her the way he almost looked at me.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I shouldn’t do this to myself.
I always knew this was coming.
I just thought — after the roof, after everything —
I thought I had more time.
• • •
I’m on the kitchen floor when I finally break.
Not dramatically. No reason. That kind that doesn’t need one.
Just the weight of it all accumulating until my legs stopped cooperating somewhere between the fridge and the counter and I sat down on the tile and stared at the cabinet across from me.
My dad sees me first.
He’s at the counter, chopping herbs, a steak already on the pan, and he looks over and sets the knife down without a word.
“Spit it out,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
My mom comes in from behind me. Her hands find my shoulders.
