I haven’t messaged or followed him, but I have spent many sleepless hours poring over his photos. No matter how much I stalk and stare, I cannot resolve how someone like him could be interested in me. Am I allowed to be flattered? Am I allowed to want to sleep with him? It feels like Seidon’s interest could be a bridge to some other world, a ledge that dives into uncharted valleys.

Mostly, I just end up feeling angry. The anger is so easy, I let it bloom in my chest like a flower. He loves me, he loves me not. Screw you both, with your casual attractions. You did this to me, you made me this way.

How can I ever trust Logan if he wants someone else? How can I trust anyone ever again, if they can turn on a dime like this? Then comes the scariest cycle in this repeating track: How can I ever trust myself if I didn’t see this coming? I keep writing in my journal, like dumping my thoughts in there and locking them up will make it all go away. I keep rereading the lessons and quotes I keep copied in my personal bible section, but all the words feel hollow.

This is when I descend into the darkest pit, because this doesn’t feel like something I’ll recover from. This feels like it will leave a permanent, ugly scar. Suddenly every song I’ve ever heard makes more sense, like I’ve been let into this great human club of heartbreak. So I sit here like so many before me, tangled up, pining over the glossy photos of a boy I’ll never truly have. Who I’ll never truly be.

I’ll always just be me. Critical, riddled Chase.

“You look as bad as I feel.”

Amelia speaks from the doorway, indeed looking equally terrible. Of course, now all I can think is that Logan would know what to do next. He’d know what to say to make Amelia feel better. But what can I say, aside from welcoming her to the business of misery? I’d love the company.

“Chase, what’s that?”

Amelia points to the center of the table in front of me. Shifting my gaze, I find a plain white piece of paper there, folded neatly in three.

“I don’t know,” I answer, hating myself. Of course I was too absorbed by my thoughts to notice the letter sitting right in front of my face. I’m so terrified that if I stop moving, I’ll unravel. I’m a tightly wound ball of twine—tensing up and rolling along is the only way I’ll stay in one piece.

Amelia rushes to the table, with Cleo following close behind. She opens the letter, and I don’t need Amelia to say a word to know it’s from Anwar. So we all read together:

Amelia, this letter is much less than you deserve, but I had to leave something behind. Some explanation that would maybe excuse the inexcusable thing I’ve done.