Do I really? Once the voice sneaks into my thoughts, I can’t shake it out. I’d wanted to think that Cyrus was different from the other guys. I’d been so willing to trust him, to accept his apology about the past, to hand my heart over to him. But it’s like I’ve been doused with freezing water, left gasping as the chill sets into my stomach. My mind spins with images of the boys I’ve been with before: the unexpected flash of the camera when I leaned in to kiss one of them, documenting a private moment so they could share it with their friends; the boy who bragged about making out with me before my lipstick had even dried on his mouth; the ones who only remembered to text me back when I posted a pretty photo of myself in a tight dress. All the boys who’d charm me and kiss me and lose interest right after, the thrill of the chase expired.

What if Cyrus isn’t any different? What if his kindness was a ploy all along, his tenderness something I’d made up inside my head just because I wanted him? More questions crowd forth, racing one another toward the worst-case scenario.

It’s all just too much of a coincidence. I’d offered him the one piece of my life I’ve hidden from everyone else—and almost right away, this happens.

“Leah,” Cyrus says, but I can barely hear him over the loud, incessant buzzing in my eardrums. “Leah, please—”

“Why should I trust you?” I demand. Oh my god, I think I’m really, actually going to be sick. I’m so stupid. If I weren’t about to burst into tears, I’d laugh at myself, at everything I was thinking a few minutes ago, fantasizing about a grand love story with the boy who’s already proven himself capable of destroying my life. Such naivete, such disgusting optimism, thinking I’d finally found someone who knew me, who would protect me, keep my secrets safe.

I should’ve known better.

Then Sean holds his phone up, his eyes locking with mine, the accusation in them clear. “Leah, is this you?”

Everyone from our group is watching me. Waiting for an explanation, or maybe simply waiting for me to confirm that I am a terrible person, a fake, a sellout, a slut, someone complicit in the fetishization of their culture. Even Oliver is frowning at the photos, his mouth puckered with what must be distaste or pure disgust. A recent memory rises like a sepia-toned scene from an old film: laughing in the bus seat next to him, our fists raised in mock toast, to friendship.