Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
WILLOW
This one cuts the deepest. If being myself were enough, Roman would’ve noticed years ago. He would’ve looked at me and seen more than his best friend, more than the girl who patches shelves and strings garland until her fingers ache. He would’ve seen someone worth choosing.
But he doesn’t. Not like that. Not yet.
So what does that say? That maybe, I’m not enough.
By the time I lock up, the street is lit with Christmas lights—strings of gold and red crisscrossing above Main like the town is trying to convince itself magic still exists.
I stop outside the glass storefront, my reflection framed by tinsel and a painted wreath, and I don’t recognize myself for a second.
My smile looks forced. My eyes look tired.
And the worst part is, I look like someone still hoping.
If Christmas is supposed to be about miracles, then I guess mine got lost in the mail.
In conclusion: the internet is trash, and so am I—pathetically googling my way through heartbreak like it’s a DIY project.