The weight of those words had crushed the air out of my lungs. I felt them everywhere—in my throat, in my hands, in my chest, where my stupid heart was pounding way too hard, way too fast, like it didn’t know what to do with itself.

I had waited years for those words.

I had imagined them spilling from Blake’s lips a thousand different ways, longed for the confirmation of something I’d always suspected but never dared to believe.

And now?

Now, I wanted to shove them right back down his throat.

Because it didn’t change anything.

Because it didn’t undo all the times he had pushed me away.

My chest felt too full, as if something was clawing inside me, desperate to escape, desperate to breathe.

I swung my leg over my bike, my heart pounding in a rhythm I couldn’t slow down, my pulse thrumming with too many emotions at once—anger, confusion, heartbreak, frustration.

I needed to get to work. Needed to slip into my usual routine, stand behind the ticket counter, and lose myself in the noise of moviegoers asking for popcorn with extra butter.

I needed to pretend he never said it.

I pedaled toward the street, gripping the handlebars tighter than necessary, my knuckles turning white. And then I saw Sydney.

She was sitting in her car, her hands clutching the steering wheel, her forehead pressed against it as if she was trying to keep herself from falling apart.

For a second, I hesitated.

Because I could have just pedaled past her.

I could have pretended I didn’t see her.

I could have let her cry alone.

We had spent so much time pretending not to notice each other. Avoiding eye contact like it was some unspoken rule.

But no girl should ever sit alone in her car, crying over a boy.

I exhaled sharply, my grip on the handlebars loosening.

Setting my bike against the curb, I crossed the short distance to her car and knocked gently on the window.

Sydney startled, quickly wiping her face as she turned her head. Her eyes widened in surprise before narrowing with suspicion. “What do you want?”

With a sigh, I motioned for her to roll the window down.

Her brown eyes were red-rimmed, mascara smudged beneath them, making her look less like the girl who always had it together and more like someone who had just lost something she thought was hers. She scowled but rolled the window down anyway. “What?” she snapped.

I ignored the bite in her voice. “You okay?”

She let out a humorless laugh, wiping at her face aggressively. “Seriously?” She gestured at herself, at her tear-streaked cheeks and trembling hands. “Do I look okay to you?”

“No,” I said, raising a brow. “You look like someone who’s trying really hard to be mad when they’re actually just sad.”

“Don’t—”