Because that’s her life on the screen. The cool and flirty girl with impeccable fashion sense who’s in love with her best friend. She had almost been his best person at his wedding, standing by his side in a hideous purple dress because it was the right thing to do.

Because that’s what unconditional love meant.

Joy didn’t settle for friendship with Malcolm. She welcomed it, making a choice, and stood by it and him for ten years.

After Caroline left, she filled his days, because that’s what friends did. When he called her in the middle of the night, she answered, never missing a single call. She navigated the afterburn of romantic devastation with him, encouraged him as he crawled out of his depressed shell, helped him remember how to breathe, how to find and hold on to happiness. Every whim, every idea, every emotion he had, she had been there. And it still hadn’t been enough.

I just wanted to find someone to talk to who would understand what I’ve been through, and there she was.

There’s a line between being a good friend and expecting a reward for being a good friend. Joy never expected Malcolm to fall for her—but maybe. Just maybe . . . maybe she hoped he’d at least consider it. Does that make her a bad person? A bad friend, terrible and selfish?

It takes three hours for Joy’s tears to slow from a river to a creek to a trickle, but the pain hasn’t gone anywhere. It lives in her like a collapsed lung—it only hurts when she breathes or moves.

Malcolm has always been the only one for her. There was something almost magical about the moments when she went from being fine with the way things were to tensing at his touch, reading too deeply into every conversation, relishing every thrill of eye contact, and experiencing the surreal confusion of discovering there was a more to even want.

Slowly, carefully, she unplugs her phone from the charger with as little movement as possible. She blinks until her eyes adjust to the sudden burst of light.

No messages. Her fingers hover above the keypad as she thinks of what to say.

JOY: Wardrobe recommendations?

Malcolm replies in ten seconds flat with a short list. It’s almost three a.m. Not only is he still awake, but he’s also been waiting. He probably knew exactly what she’d ask and had the answer ready.

JOY: Have you slept at all?

MALCOLM: Not yet. I didn’t want to miss your text.

Fuck, she was right.

Joy smiles, vaguely aware of how demented she must look in the pitch black of her room. Eyes red and swollen, face wet and reflective because of the phone’s screen shining on her. Screw couples who could complete each other sentences—they predicted each other’s every move.