For a moment, I braced myself, half-expecting her to throw something at me. But she didn’t. She just exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “You don’t even know how to admit it, do you? That you don’t love me. That you never did. That’s why you won’t let me kiss you and why you keep me at arm’s length.”

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

Because she was right.

Because my heart wasn’t hers.

“You’re such a coward, Blake,” she choked out, blinking back the tears she refused to let fall. “God, you can’t even give me that. You can’t even tell me the truth.”

I exhaled slowly, rubbing my temples. I was so tired.

Tired of pretending. Tired of trying to be something I wasn’t. Tired of standing in front of a girl who deserved more and giving her nothing.

Sydney’s voice shook with desperation, her tone rising in one final, frantic effort to drag the truth out of me. “Is it because of Beverly?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

She saw it in the way my jaw clenched, in the way my hands curled into fists at my sides, and in the way I didn’t deny it.

It must have been written all over my face.

“Of course it is.” A broken laugh escaped her, and she pressed a hand to her forehead, as if she couldn't believe it had taken her this long to put it together. “It’s always been her, hasn’t it?” The tears finally spilled over, and she wiped them away furiously, like she was angry at herself for crying in front of me. “God, I’m so stupid. I’ve been sitting here for weeks, trying to figure out what I did wrong. Trying to be enough for you. But it was never me, was it? It was always her.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“Jesus Christ.” Her voice was hollow, stripped of everything but contempt. “You’re pathetic.”

She turned and walked out, slamming the door behind her. The sound rang out like a gunshot, leaving me alone in the too-small bathroom with nothing but my reflection and the weight of her words.

And Beverly’s name—lingering in my chest like a wound that wouldn’t close. I let out a bitter laugh that barely made it past my throat, tipping my head back against the cold tile wall. Beverly.

Always, always Beverly.

That was the problem—the truth I couldn’t admit out loud.

“What happened?”

I stiffened and turned my head.

And there she was.

She stood in the doorway, barefoot, arms crossed, her face a mix of concern and frustration.

She must have heard everything.

Her blonde hair was a mess, and she was drowning in a white oversized sweatshirt she had stolen from my closet years ago—one that should have looked ugly but somehow didn’t.