She sighed softly, her shoulders sagging as she rubbed her temples, as if the weight of the world had settled there again. “Alright, Blake. If you say so.” Her voice was softer now, quieter, like she was talking more to herself than to me. “I’ll be in bed. We’ll talk tomorrow, alright?”

I nodded once.

She didn’t believe me.

But she was too tired to push.

She gave a quiet shake of her head, muttering something about Beverly and me before turning to head back to her room.

Feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me, I walked back into my room, closing the door quietly behind me.

Sydney was still sitting on my bed.

Her face was scrunched with awkwardness like she wasn’t sure if she should stay or leave. “Are you okay?” she asked carefully.

I barely heard her. All I could see was Beverly—her face when she walked in, the way her fingers slipped and the bikini hit the floor. The way she’d looked at me like I’d ripped something out of her chest and stomped on it.

“Are you okay?” Sydney tried again.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Because I was a mess—a tangled-up wreck of emotions I couldn’t even begin to untangle.

I sank down onto the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, my hands dragging down my face. I had made a decision months ago, and now I was watching it unfold in real time—watching the consequences of my own actions crash down around me.

I wasn’t going to cry. Not in front of Sydney. Not at all.

“Blake?” Her voice was softer now.

I felt the bed shift as she moved closer. A hand on my back. Warmth against my shoulder.

I didn’t want it.

I didn’t want her.

I wanted Beverly.

I wanted to hear her slam my door open like she always did, hear her voice filling the room like she owned the air in here. And I wanted her to throw that stupid pink bikini at me and demand that I tell her she looked good in it, just so she could roll her eyes when I said something dumb. I wanted her back here, yelling at me, hating me, anything—because even when Beverly was pissed, she still felt close.

“I’m sorry if I caused trouble,” Sydney said. “I didn’t mean to.”

I shook my head. “It’s not you.”

It wasn’t.

It was me. It was the last few months of pretending I didn’t care, of shutting Beverly out because I thought it was safer that way. It was letting her walk away instead of saying the one thing that might’ve kept her here. It was everything I didn’t do.