“We haven’t done anything wrong,” I insist, trying to get through to her.

“We’ve done everything wrong.”

I gaze at her through the dim-lit car, her tears illuminated by the dashboard. She looks worn down, defeated, and lost. All I’ve tried to do is build her up, put her pieces back together, and quiet the ghosts that haunt her day in and day out.

I had no idea I was the reason for the look in her eyes right now.

It guts me.

I glance down at the chain around her neck, the heart locket hidden beneath her red camisole. Her top matches the color of her mouth, even though her lipstick is smudged from the tears still raining down her cheeks. While staring at her lips, I’m reminded of the last time I was pressed against them and how warm and soft they felt—something good and pure poking through the ugliness. I find her eyes and ask, “What happened between us that last day?”

I finally said it. I brought life to the single most confusing moment of my existence, and up until now, up until this very second, I could still pretend it was a dream. A mirage. Maybe a fucked up fantasy. It wasn’t real—as long as we never acknowledged it, it never happened.

But it’s real now. And it’s hovering between us, thick and potent, tearing away our armor and walls and carefully assembled layers.

Cora’s breath hitches as she locks her eyes on mine, blinking back more tears. “I wasn’t myself—I zoned out and my body was confused. It didn’t mean anything.”

I frown, taken aback by her words. Bullshit. “You’re lying. You were there with me, one hundred percent. I saw it in your eyes.”

“No.”

“Yes, Cora.”

“No,” she grits out, her chin quivering. “Please go.”

I lean forward until our faces are only inches apart and I can smell the flowers in her hair. I clench my jaw and say in a low, low voice, “You can lie to yourself all you want, but I was there. I know you felt it. And I’m not saying I understand it, or can explain it, or know what the fuck to do about it, but it was something, Corabelle.”

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, her breathing uneven and her body still shivering, but not from the cold—no, not from the cold. Cora leans into me, her eyes dancing to my mouth for a fleeting moment, then right back up again. She sucks in a breath. “Don’t call me that.” Her voice is deadly calm and full of icy warning. She falls back against the seat, still cutting me with her sharp gaze. “Now… get out of my car.”

The flickering light I’ve carried with me since the day this all began, the hope of better days, the glimmer of promise that someday, one day, everything will be bright again, extinguishes right then and there. I feel cold and dark and empty.