THAT EVENING, ALONE in her cottage, Annabelle finally let the mask slip.
She stood at her kitchen sink, staring out the window toward Raven's cottage. The lights were on. Raven was there, probably packing, probably already halfway to gone.
Annabelle had half a mind to march over there. To demand an explanation that made sense. To ask why she wasn't even worth trying for.
But she didn't.
Because Lily was right. She couldn't make someone choose her. Couldn't fix this by trying harder or being better or asking for less.
She'd spent so long trying to be perfect. Bringing Raven biscuits and giving her space and never asking for too much. Never letting her see the messy, needy parts. Never admitting how terrified she was that if she asked Raven to stay, Raven would realize Annabelle wasn't special enough to stay for.
And in the end, it hadn't mattered anyway.
Raven was still leaving.
Annabelle turned away from the window, away from the sight of that cottage and everything it represented. She sank down at the kitchen table and put her head in her hands.
She'd been so stupid. Falling for someone who'd been clear from the beginning that they were only passing through. Convincing herself that if she could just be bright enough, helpful enough,perfectenough, Raven might change her mind.
But people didn't stay because you fixed their problems or made their lives easier. They stayed because they wanted to. Because they chose to.
And Raven hadn't chosen her.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Lily:Checking in. You okay?
Annabelle typed back:Fine. Just tired. Talk tomorrow.
Then she silenced her phone and stared at the table surface.
Tomorrow she'd be fine. Tomorrow she'd smile and thank people and organize the library setup and pretend her heart wasn't breaking.
Tomorrow she'd be the Annabelle everyone expected her to be: cheerful, optimistic, unshakeable.
But tonight, alone in her kitchen with the curtains drawn and no one to see, she let herself sit in the wreckage of what she'd thought could be.
She'd known this would happen.
She'd always known.
And somehow, that made it hurt even worse.
Chapter Thirty
Raven stared at the open suitcase on her bed and wondered when she'd become the kind of person who ran away.
The cottage looked wrong already. Stripped. The guitars were packed, the notebooks stacked, the coffee mugs washed and lined up on the draining board like soldiers awaiting orders. She'd only been here for a few weeks, but somehow the place had stopped feeling temporary.
That was the problem, wasn't it? She'd let herself get comfortable. Let herself believe she could have this, the quiet mornings, the village that didn't demand anything from her, the teacher next door who made her want to be better than she was.
Her phone buzzed. Claire again, probably. The fourth message today, all variations on the same theme:Studio booked for Tuesday. Don't be late. This is your shot.
Raven ignored it and folded another shirt into the suitcase with more force than necessary.
The knock on the door made her jump.
"It's open," she called, expecting Daisy with yet another cheerful goodbye, or Gloria with some dramatic speech about Bankton losing its musical soul.
It was Arty.
