Chapter 29
PIPER
Isit in my bed for twenty minutes after he leaves, completely numb.
No wonder Miles chose Harper.
You’re worse than Paige.
You’re so broken you’ll sabotage anything good.
He’s right. He’s completely right. I had something beautiful and I ruined it because I was too scared to trust him with the truth.
My phone buzzes. Riya texting to ask how my morning is going.
I can’t respond. Can’t move. Can barely breathe.
I’m not enough. I’ll never be enough.
The words echo in my head, confirming every fear I’ve ever had. Miles saw it. Now Ethan sees it too. There’s something fundamentally wrong with me that makes me unlovable. Unchosen.
I curl into myself, pulling my knees to my chest. His scent is still on my sheets. His plant is still in my living room. Evidence of something beautiful that I destroyed with my cowardice.
The tears come again, harder this time. Not pretty crying but ugly, chest-heaving sobs that feel like they’re cracking me open.
Because the worst part is, he didn’t say anything I haven’t already thought about myself.
I’m broken.
I sabotage good things.
I’m not enough.
Ten days.
That’s how long it’s been since Ethan walked out of my apartment. Since he compared me to his cheating ex and confirmed every fear I’ve ever had about myself. Since my world imploded over a game review I wrote before I even knew him.
Ten days of silence so loud it hurts.
No wonder Miles chose Harper.
The words play on repeat in my head, especially at night when I can’t sleep. Because Ethan saw it too—whatever fundamental flaw makes me unlovable. First Miles, now Ethan. Different men, same conclusion.
I’m not worth choosing.
I haven’t been to Dora’s since it happened. Called in sick three times, until finally Dora said to just take the week and come back when I’m ready. But how do you get ready to exist again when someone you love confirms your worst fear about yourself?
You’re worse than Paige.
At least Paige was chosen. At least she was wanted, even if she betrayed that want. I’m just the girl who waits in shadows, who keeps secrets because she knows the truth would make people leave faster.
Riya sits with me and talks about her day even though I don’t respond.
She hasn’t pushed me yet, but she is close to.
I’ve explained the situation to her five times now and we keep going in circles.
But I know she knows it’s bad. Worse than after Miles.
Because with Miles, some part of me always knew I was holding onto something that wasn’t real.
But Ethan? Ethan was real. Ethan saw me—really saw me—and chose me anyway. Until he realized what he was looking at.
You’re so broken you’ll sabotage anything good.
The worst part is he’s right. I had something beautiful and I destroyed it with my cowardice. My inability to trust. My fundamental wrongness that makes me hold secrets like armor even from people who deserve truth.
I open my laptop in the lounge for the first time in days, stare at the OptiMatch code. All these algorithms to predict compatibility, but what’s the point when the problem isn’t compatibility? The problem is me. No algorithm can fix someone who’s fundamentally broken.
“Oh my god, stop.” Riya’s voice cuts through from my doorway. “I can literally hear you thinking self-destructive shit from the kitchen.”
She pads in, mug in hand, and perches on my desk. “We’ve been through this, babe. You’re not broken. Ethan’s not some oracle who speaks universal truths. He’s just a hot guy with abandonment issues who freaked out.”
“He said I was worse than Paige.”
“I’m not saying that’s ok. It’s not. But sometimes people lash out when they’re hurt. Maybe give him chance to explain. My ex once said I looked like a gremlin when I cry. Doesn’t make it true.” She sips her tea. “Well, maybe a little true, but beside the point.”
“Ry—”
“No, listen. You wrote a game review. A game review. You didn’t sell his nudes or key his car or whatever that Paige girl did.” She sets down her mug with force. “He took his trauma and projectile vomited it all over you. That’s on him, not you.”
Maybe that’s what I should code next. An app that warns people away from people like me. “Swipe left. This person will disappoint you.”
“Ugh, you’re doing the thing again.” Riya grabs my face between her hands. “Look at me. You listening? Good. You are not responsible for other people’s emotional regulation. Say it back.”
“Riya—”
“Say. It. Back.”
“I’m not responsible for other people’s emotional regulation,” I mumble.
“Louder for the self-hatred in the back!”
“This isn’t helping.”
“You know what would help? Going outside. Vitamin D. Human interaction that isn’t me forcing you to eat.
” She releases my face and grins at my glare.
“Look, I get it. He hit you right in your deepest insecurity. That was fucked up. But you’re sitting here like he carved it in stone when really he just had a mantrum. ”
“A mantrum?”
“Man-tantrum. It’s a thing. Ask any woman who’s dated a man who’s been hurt before.” She studies me. “The question is, do you want try with him and wait for him to get his shit together, or move on?”
I just looked at her, completely lost.
“That’s it.” Riya snaps my laptop closed, gentler this time. “Shower. Real clothes. We’re getting coffee.”
“I don’t want coffee.”
“Too bad. You smell fusty.” She wrinkles her nose. “When’s the last time you ate actual food?”
I try to remember. “I had... crackers?”
“When?”
“Yesterday? Maybe?”
“Shower. Now. Or I’m calling your mom.”
The threat works.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely recognize myself.
My face is puffy from crying, my hair hasn’t been washed in days, and I’ve lost weight I couldn’t afford to lose.
I look like what I am—someone who’s been gutted and hasn’t figured out how to function without the pieces that got carved out.
Maybe he saw what I was too stupid to see—that you’re so broken you’ll sabotage anything good rather than risk being real.
The memory of his voice, so cold and certain, makes me grip the sink. He didn’t yell at the end. He just stated it like fact. Like he’d finally diagnosed what was wrong with me.
And the thing is, I can’t argue. I did sabotage us. I did choose protection over trust. I did exactly what he accused me of.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in actual jeans and a sweater that doesn’t smell like despair, walking across campus with Riya. Spring is trying its best—students sprawl on blankets, pretending it’s warmer than it is, textbooks open but ignored.
“See?” Riya gestures broadly. “Sunlight. Fresh air. Human beings who aren’t made of code.”
“I prefer the code.”
“The code doesn’t love you back.”
“Neither does—” I stop, the words catching in my throat.
Neither does Ethan.
We’re passing the gym when I see them. Ethan and Freddie, emerging from the athletic complex. Ethan’s in basketball shorts and a worn t-shirt, hair damp with sweat. He’s laughing at something Freddie said, head thrown back, completely at ease.
My chest constricts.
He looks good. Happy. Like someone who hasn’t spent days rewriting the same code over and over, trying to debug feelings that won’t compile.
Ethan glances our way—maybe he feels my staring—and our eyes meet across thirty feet of sidewalk. His laughter dies. Freddie notices, says something I can’t hear. Ethan shakes his head, and they pivot toward the parking lot.
Away from me.
“He’s avoiding me,” I say, voice small.
“Or respecting the space he asked for.”
“He asked for time to think. It’s been over a week. How much thinking does one person need?”
“Maybe he’s scared too.”
I watch them disappear around the building.
“Come on,” Riya says gently. “Coffee. Carbs. Maybe some perspective.”
CC’s at 2 PM on Sunday is uncharacteristically quiet—too late for brunch, too early for dinner, populated by the hungover and homework-avoidant. The familiar smell of burned coffee and possibility hits as we slide into a corner booth.
A server I don’t recognize materializes with a coffee pot. Purple-streaked hair, maybe nineteen, smile that says she needs this job.
“Coffee?” Already pouring without waiting.
“Thanks.” I flip my mug, grateful for something to occupy my hands. “And a blueberry muffin, please.”
“Comfort carbs. Respect.” She turns to Riya. “You?”
“Just coffee. I’m the emotional support.”
The server—KESS, per her nametag—nods approvingly. “Good friend. Keep her.” She heads off, sneakers squeaking.
“She seems nice,” Riya observes.
“Everyone seems nice when you’re desperate for human validation.”
“That’s the spirit.”
My muffin arrives, perfect and golden, but my appetite is theoretical at best. I pick at it while Riya studies me with uncomfortable intensity.
“You know what your problem is?” she says finally.
“Apparently, I’m about to.”
“This isn’t really about Ethan.”
I look up sharply. “What?”
“Hear me out.” She leans forward. “When Ethan said that thing about Miles choosing Harper—why did it hurt so much?”
“Because it was cruel—”
“No. Why did it hurt YOU so much?” She holds up a hand before I can deflect. “It’s because part of you still believes it. Part of you still thinks Miles saw something fundamentally wrong with you.”
My throat tightens. “Maybe he did.”
“Babe, no.” Riya reaches across the table. “Miles didn’t choose Harper over you. Miles chose the easy lie over dealing with his shit. That’s not about your worth—that’s about his cowardice.”
“But—”
“And until you really believe that, like deep-in-your-bones believe it, you’re going to keep sabotaging things.” Her voice gentles. “You didn’t tell Ethan about the review because you don’t think you deserve good things. So you hold back, waiting for them to leave.”
“That’s not—” But the words die because she’s right.