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“Sad” doesn’t even begin to explain how I feel.

The hurt feels too big for my body. I’ve never in my life felt this bone-deep agony that tears at the edges of my sanity before.

Blaire was my person since college. She knew me before Caleb, before all the drama. She hated him from the start and saw the rot in him when I was too love-struck to notice. I thought I was saving him. Blaire knew I was drowning, and now all I have are regrets that I didn’t listen to her warnings and pleas—her increasingly desperate attempts to pull me back to shore.

I wasted two years fighting with her about him, pushing her away every time she tried to intervene. Two years of screaming matches between her and Caleb, only to invite me over for wine and rom-coms after. I defended him while she watched me crumble.

I thought her distance over the past few months had been because she was busy, moving on with her life, and moving up in her job, but the truth is, she was tired of trying to save someone who refused to be saved. And now, she’s gone.

I’ll never get the chance to tell her she was right.

In the days following her death, Ghost’s sick game escalates, trying to apologize for murder. It feels obscene. Several times a day, I find bouquets and notes; each gift is a fresh wound torn open.

“For your loss” and “We can be happy now.”

Each time I grab the glass vase and hurl it off the porch with a scream, the glass shatters across the yard in a symphony of destruction. The sound of breaking glass against concrete has become my favorite sound.

The walkway up to my house now resembles a crime scene in its own way; shards of crystal and wilted petals scatter across the browning grass. Blood drops on the steps from where I occasionally cut my fingers.

Despite it all, I’m lucky to still have the people I do.

Preston has called several times, checking in on me, and surprisingly, he’s the only one who can bring a little life to me. He tells me about random things happening in his class. Told me about when a guy at work was stealing his food, not realizing he was the man’s boss. Preston put a stupid amount of wasabi in the middle of his sandwich so he could find out who it was.

The best part about him is that he isn’t asking me to be happy or have a compelling conversation, but he’s more than happy to sit and listen to me cry about missing Blaire. He comforts me without even being near me. The only thing I need right now is someone to listen, not try to relate or find solutions. Just be there, and he is.

I flinch when a loud knock rattles through the house, the sound slicing through the now-normal quiet. I don’t want to see anyone. I haven’t showered in days, or brushed my hair, or, embarrassingly enough, my teeth. I haven’t even left the house to go to work.

The outside world feels too bright, too full of happy people who are still breathing when my best friend isn’t. Thankfully, Lydia understands. This is the one instance where she doesn’t press for more information or for me to step outside of my comfort zone.

I drag myself to the door, feeling as if I’m walking through quicksand. I crack it open, and immediately, I wish I hadn’t.

Hudson stands there, looking polished and pitiful. His usually wild curls are styled with product, tamed to look respectable. His smile stretches tight and fake across his face.

“What do you want?” I rasp, my throat sore from disuse, aside from occasionally screaming into my pillow.

“I wanted to come check on you… Can I come in?”

I snort, pulling the oversized shirt that I haven’t changed out of since Blaire’s death tighter around me. The fall air is unrelenting, but I wasn’t going to let him come in.

“Since when do you ask permission?” I mutter as I step onto the porch, stepping over broken glass.

His dark brown eyes soften, full of what I assume is a pathetic imitation of concern.

“Listen, I really don’t know what you think is happening, but whatever all this is, it’s not me. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Lydia showed me the article in the paper about Blaire.”

“Doesn’t matter what the paper said. It’s wrong anyway; she was murdered. You would know that,” I spat the words at him, watching his reaction closely.

“The paper says no foul play.”

“Of course it does.” I let out a bitter chuckle. Fury is spreading inside of me, spreading through my veins as if I’ve just injected poison. “And of course, you’d come over here and repeat their bullshit. What’s next, Hudson? You’re going to kill my mom because she gave me a shitty childhood? Maybe off Lydia because she spoke to me too long at work? And what about Preston? Gonna slit his throat because he dared to take me out?”

Every word I throw at him stabs deeper into my own heart, but I can’t stop. They pour out of me uncontrollably. I want to hurt him, want to see him flinch and feel even a fraction of the agony that’s eating me alive.

Hudson shakes his head slowly, almost as if he felt bad for me. And that look—that goddamn condescending look makes me want to rip his fucking eyes out.

“Whatever, Wynnie. You got me, I’m Ghost,” he says, thick with sarcasm and surrender, his hands raised in defeat.

“I fucking knew it,” I hiss, throwing my arms in the air, trembling with vindication. “You’ll get what you deserve, Hudson Sterling! I can promise you that!”