“Okay,” I say.
My drawl comes softer when I’m furious.
Controlled.
Steel wrapped in satin.
“I’m a straight shooter. I don’t do this back and forth.”
They both look at me.
“Cards on the table.” I lock my eyes on Tristan. “The way I see it, we’re either together… or we’re not.”
I can hear my own pulse.
Can hear somebody typing at the next table.
Can hear the air moving through the vent above us.
“But I need you to hear me.” My voice sharpens under the softness now. “She doesn’t make you happy.”
Stella’s jaw tightens.
I don’t look at her.
I don’t need to.
I’m talking to him.
“She plays games,” I say. “Pulls you in. Pushes you away. Never chooses. Never fully lets you go.”
That part is true too.
Or true enough from where I’m sitting.
My hand lifts, hovering near his, not touching this time because he already took the liberty of removing me once and I won’t beg in front of her.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
A breath.
Then the line that finally rips me open as I say it, “And I’m real.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Humiliating.
Stella exhales slowly.
Then she says, calm as a blade, “Then I guess it’s my turn.”
I look at her.
I should have seen it coming.
What she says next—about unfinished things, about five years, about fairness—I could almost survive.
