I guess I do. Even if I’m buried in books, papers, and tests, a memory of Harbor joins me at some point. Sometimes I spend time with him, and sometimes the visit is too short. It hurts all over again as if the wound is still fresh every time, though.

“I was,” he says, his smile fading under the cover of sincerity.

Searching his features for the man I can hate again, I struggle to find him when he looks so much the same as when I loved him. Sure, he looks older, twenty-five versus twenty-three when he left. But only in that way that men age to become even more beautiful than they were.

It’s almost annoying, considering I wouldn’t have worn jeggings, a baggy sweatshirt, and dirty sneakers if I knew I would be seeing him . . . or him see me. My hair is bundled into a mess on top of my head, and I didn’t bother with makeup—Oh my God, snap out of it, Lark!

“Well,” I say, “I hope you found yourself wherever you’ve been.” I walk around him and down the aisle toward the stairs.

“I did,” he replies to my back.

I stop, not giving him a front-row seat to my emotions or even my expression. I start walking again, this time faster until I’m running down the stairs. I’m given a look by the librarian, so I slow down and pretend my body isn’t ready to launch from my skin. Everything inside tells me to run, to get out of here as fast as I can. Not from fear but from the love that I just realized I still have for him.

Bastard.

I gather the notebooks and shove them in my bag before slamming my laptop closed and tucking it inside. Swinging it onto my shoulder, I collect the books and hurry back to the librarian. “Hi, I need to return these.”

“Just leave them here.”

“Thank you.”

There’s no sign of Harbor, and I don’t know how to feel—do I want to see him again, to talk, to argue, to freaking kiss? Or is it best if he’s gone?

Please let him be gone. I don’t have time to figure out which emotion suits me best in this situation.

I push through the doors to see him waiting outside—hands in his pockets, a shier side of his earlier smile, but unfortunately, no less charming. His shoulders appear broader, but I’d have to be splayed across him to measure, and that’s not going to happen . . . I don’t think.

No.

It’s not.

Why am I like this? What am I doing?

When I start walking in the direction of the apartment, he asks, “May I walk with you, Lark?”

“No.” I keep walking. Despite how tempting it is to turn back and get one last look, his disappearance was child’s play compared to this torture.

“Hey, Lark?”

“Leave me alone.” I keep walking, too unsteady in my frame of mind to think rationally. That’s what I need to think clearly around him, and I’m lacking all capabilities to reason.