I grab Greg and head upstairs.
The moment I shut my door, the silence swells. It’s not lonely exactly. Just... echoey. Like the room remembers she used to be here.
I set Greg on the windowsill and boot up my laptop, but I don’t open the game files. Not yet.
Instead, I pull open the photo gallery on my phone.
There she is. Paige.
Smiling in the middle of that stupid pumpkin patch I never even wanted to go to. Her head on my shoulder. Her hand in mine. Like she actually wanted to be there.
I stare at the photo for a long time. Then my thumb hovers over the trash icon.
Just press it.
Do it.
She cheated. She said I was just a “filler”—a distraction until someone better came along. So why is it so hard to let go of this?
The door creaks open without a knock.
“E,” Freddie says, leaning in. “You working on your showcase build tonight?”
I quickly lock the screen and toss my phone onto the bed like it’s radioactive. “Yeah. In a sec.”
“You good?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Just needed a second to... reposition Greg.”
Freddie smirks but doesn’t press. He walks over and ruffles Greg’s leaf like it’s a real person. “You know she was a dick to you, but not all women are like that.”
“You think?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah. You just... you fall hard and fast man. Maybe slow down, get to know somebody. Let them get to know you properly.”
I snort. “Comforting.”
“Look, it’s okay to move on slowly,” Freddie continues, settling against my doorframe. “But you do have to move on eventually.”
“I am moving on!” I gesture dramatically at Greg. “Greg’s basically a chick magnet. Like a small dog but leafier. This hot waitress at Dora’s was totally into him today.”
Freddie raises an eyebrow. “The plant was a chick magnet?”
“Well, she was into me too. Kinda nerdy vibes—glasses, sarcastic, probably reads code for fun—but like, sexy nerdy. You know?”
“Did you get her number?”
“I was... establishing rapport. Building connection. Playing the long game.”
“So, no?”
“No.” I deflate slightly. Truth is, she was hot. Smart-mouthed and quick-witted in a way that made my brain light up even through the post-Paige fog. But flirting at parties, making out with random girls when I’m drunk—that’s onething. That’s safe. No expectations, no feelings, no chance of hearing I’m just a placeholder again.
Actually asking a girl on a real date? Going to dinner, learning her favorite movie, letting her see the parts of me that aren’t just loud jokes and party tricks? That’s relationship territory, and I’m not going anywhere near that minefield. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“She’s a moron, Ethan,” Freddie says, and I know he means Paige, not the waitress.
I nod. But the photo still sits in my hidden folder. Not gone. Not yet.
