33. Chapter Thirty-Three #2
I wasn't crying because he confessed, or because he said we were together.
I was crying because he finally spoke like a partner, not an owner.
He didn't claim me, didn't imply I belonged to him, didn't turn it into a love story for the internet.
He took responsibility. He named the thing. He put it on himself.
My phone buzzed. A text from Harper.
You okay? I saw it. Want me to come sit on your floor and judge men with you?
A laugh broke through my sobs, sharp and shaky. Harper had been my drummer for years, which meant she'd seen every version of me: stage-brave, bathroom-crying, revenge-song feral, and whatever unfortunate species this was.
I typed back with trembling fingers: Give me ten. Then stared at it and deleted it because ten sounded pathetic.
Come now. Bring tissues.
I hit send.
My phone buzzed again, Finn this time. Because of course it was Finn. My best friend had a sixth sense for emotional collapse and a seventh for making it worse with snacks.
You don't have to answer anyone about this. Including him.
My throat tightened. I texted back: I'm fine.
Finn replied almost instantly. Cool. Still doesn't make it true.
I stared at the screen, then dropped my phone onto the couch and pressed my palms to my eyes.
A knock hit my door. Harper didn't wait for permission. She cracked it open and stuck her head in. "I brought tissues and violence. Pick one."
My laugh came out wet. "Tissues."
Harper stepped inside, shut the door behind her, and handed me a small packet. She didn't ask questions right away. She sat on my couch and patted the cushion beside her.
I sat, wiping my face. My cheeks felt hot. My eyes ached.
Harper leaned back, arms crossed. "Okay. Talk."
"He went on a podcast."
"I know."
"And he told the truth."
"I know."
"He said we were together."
Harper shrugged. "That part isn't shocking to anyone with eyeballs."
I shot her a look.
She held up a hand. "Sorry. Rude. Continue."
I wiped my nose, mortified. "He said he tried to make my world smaller so he could fit."
Harper's face shifted, anger flickering. "That line hit me too."
"And then he said love means championing expansion. Not managing it."
Harper exhaled. "Okay. That's actually good."
"That's why I'm crying."
"Because he finally said it right."
I nodded, tears slipping again.
Harper reached over and shoved a tissue into my hand. "Okay. Here's the question."
"I hate questions."
"Great. You'll love this one."
"Harper."
"If you go back, what changes?"
The words landed hard. I froze, tissue in hand.
Harper's gaze stayed steady. "I'm not asking if you will. I'm asking what. If you even considered it. What changes?"
The answer rose fast and clear, sharper than any lyric. "Everything," I said.
Harper waited.
I swallowed, forcing myself to say the rest. "On paper and in public."
Her mouth curved. "Good."
"Good?"
"Yes. Because if he's serious about expansion, he doesn't get to have you in private and hide you in public. He doesn't get to make you a rumor."
"I don't want to be a rumor."
"Then you won't be," Harper said. "If you ever go back, it's on your terms. Contracts, credits, interviews. The whole thing."
My throat tightened, this time with something steadier.
"Finn said you don't have to answer anyone," Harper continued, nodding toward my phone. "He's right. You don't. But you do have to decide what you can live with."
I stared at my tissue, then at the mirror across from us. My face looked wrecked, my eyes swollen. I looked like someone who had been living on adrenaline and denial.
Harper watched me for a long beat. "Do you want to talk to him?"
My chest tightened. "We haven't spoken in two weeks."
"I know."
"I don't know what to say."
"Try honesty." Her mouth twitched. "It's trending."
I snorted, wet. "That's terrible."
"It's true."
My phone buzzed again, another notification from the podcast clip, another quote being shared. I didn't open it.
Harper leaned back. "Here's my offering. If you text him, keep it simple. Don't pour your guts into a blue bubble that can be screenshotted. Don't turn it into poetry. Say one thing that creates a door."
My throat tightened. "And if he walks through it?"
"Then you make sure he walks through correctly."
I swallowed hard.
Harper stood, stretching. "I have to go. Soundcheck chaos. Also, I promised Finn I'd stop stealing you from your room."
"He texted me."
"Of course he did. He's a concerned tree."
I laughed, soft and broken.
Harper moved to the door, then paused with her hand on the knob. "You're allowed to want him. That doesn't mean you're allowed to shrink."
My throat tightened. I nodded.
She left.
The room went quiet again. My breathing slowed. My tears dried into an itchy line on my cheek.
I picked up my phone. My thumb hovered over Evan's contact.
Two weeks of silence. Two weeks of distance. Two weeks of me building my own spotlight while his voice admitted his flaws into microphones.
I opened a new message.
I watched it. Deleted. Too much, an invitation for him to ask how I felt, and I didn't know how I felt.
Thank you. Deleted. Too soft, too forgiving, too quick.
Don't talk about me again. Deleted. Too angry, too reactive, too much like the old loop.
We need to set boundaries if this is going to happen. Deleted. Too businesslike. Too soon.
I stared at the blank message field until my pulse slowed. Harper's voice echoed in my head: create a door.
My finger hovered over the keyboard.
I typed: We need to talk.
I stared at it. My chest tightened, my stomach flipped, my thumb hovered over send.
I imagined him reading it. I imagined him replying too fast. I imagined him showing up at my door and knocking, and my body melting into the memory of him.
Then I imagined the booth. The restraint. The choice.
I took a breath and hit send.
The message delivered. Two weeks of silence ended with four words. My heart hammered like I had stepped onto a stage again.