The air in my room is colder, like even it knows I just admitted something I’m not supposed to.
I sink onto my bed, fingers gripping the blanket until my knuckles go white.
“I don’t like him,” I say out loud.
The words sound stupid.
Stupid and weak.
Like, even my voice doesn’t believe them.
I laugh a little, a dry, pathetic sound. “See? That’s proof. I’m literally fine.”
But my chest doesn’t feel fine.
It feels full.
Like something has been living there for a long time, and I only just noticed.
Every memory with him starts flickering through my head, and it feels like the seven seconds you have before your death.
Maybe this is the seven seconds before death.
This feels like death.
I bury my face in my hands.
“Oh my God,” I whisper into my palms.
Because once you see it, you can’t unsee it.
All those times I swore I didn’t feel anything — maybe it wasn’t that I didn’t.
Maybe I just didn’t want to.
Because liking Luca means risking something.
Something I valued a lot.
I hate risks.
I like knowing what will happen as much as possible. Taking risks means taking a step out of your comfort zone, and nine times out of ten, you will regret it.
I prefer not to experience the one percent.
I press a pillow over my chest like that can make it stop.
How can I be so stupid?
I told him I feel nothing. I said it to his face, and he believed me.
Because I believed myself.
Now he’s gone, in Italy, probably forgetting about me, while I’m sitting here realizing I—
I swallow hard.
The words won’t come out, but they are there.
