Chapter 52 #2
“You were supposed to be different,” she says, her voice shredded and raw. “You were supposed to be safe. You’ve hurt me too many times.”
I shake my head, throat tightening painfully. “I was. I am. I didn’t... I never meant for any of this—”
“You stole my life,” she cuts in, voice rising. “You knew things about me I never wanted anyone to know. You knew about my mom. My dad. About me.”
Each word lands like a slap.
Deserved.
“I didn't read it,” I choke out. “I swear to you, Rorie. I never opened it. I didn’t even remember it was in my bag. That’s not who you are to me. You’re not... some profile. You’re not bullet points. You’re—”
I break off, raking a shaking hand through my hair. “You're the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
She flinches like the words physically hit her.
“And I ruined it,” I whisper. “I hurt you. And now…” I trail off because the ending feels too final. I can feel her pulling away even as she stands there, just feet from me.
Her arms cross in front of her protectively.
“I don’t care about a fucking pitch.” I step closer. “I don't care about this fucking job. About anything except you. You are what matters.”
Silence.
The breeze tugs at her hair, sending it whipping across her tear-streaked face.
“I didn’t just fall for you,” I say hoarsely. “I crashed. Full speed. No brakes. No plan. And I would do it again. Every time. Even if it ends like this.”
I step closer. Hands at my sides. Begging without words. Pleading for something I don’t deserve.
She stares at me for a long, long moment.
I hold my breath until her voice breaks.
“I don’t trust you,” she whispers.
The ache in my chest splinters, painful and merciless. But I nod. She’s not wrong. Trust has to be rebuilt. Earned.
“I understand,” I tell her, voice shaking. “But I’ll rebuild that. For as long as it takes. I’m not walking away. Not from you.”
Another gust of wind whips between us but I barely feel it. All I can feel is her.
Standing there.
Not running to me.
Not forgiving.
Just standing.
And breaking.
She looks at me like I’m the end of something she didn’t stopped believing in.
And it kills me.
Because it’s true.
“You know,” she says, her voice cracking like it’s trying to survive her own heart, “I started thinking the universe kept crashing us together because we were meant to find each other.”
My chest caves in.
“But now…” She shakes her head—small, devastating. “Now I think the universe kept giving us chances to realize we weren’t ready. That some people meet at the wrong time… and keep breaking each other trying to pretend otherwise.”
The words hit harder than any punch I’ve ever taken.
Harder than Thatcher’s threats.
Harder than Chloe’s betrayal.
Because this? This is my fault.
I open my mouth. No words come out. How do you apologize for tearing apart the only person who ever made you believe you could be whole?
She steps back, and I instantly lose my footing. The ground slips out from under me and leaves nothing but sky and regret.
“You taught me something,: she says, and there’s no anger now. No venom. Only the brutal, bleeding truth. “You showed me that loving someone isn’t enough if you’re too broken to hold them right.”
I want to fall to my knees.
I want to take it back.
I want to erase every second of pain I’ve caused her.
But the universe doesn’t hand out do-overs.
Another step back.
Further.
Colder.
Her hand drifts to her wrist—
the bracelet.
Our anchor.
I shake my head, desperate, silently begging her not to—
She crosses the space between us, not like a lover, not like a friend—like someone delivering the final blow.
Rorie presses the bracelet into my palm. My fingers close around it on instinct, feeling the tiny, cruel weight of what I just lost. She meets my eyes one last time, and it’s like she sees everything in me—
every broken piece,
every selfish choice,
every way I failed her—
and still somehow manages to look at me like I was almost enough.
“I hope you find your north someday,” she whispers, soft as a prayer. “And I hope it feels like home.”
She turns, doesn’t look back.
The bracelet digs into my hand, a brutal reminder of what I’ve done.
I stay there, rooted to the spot like a fucking ghost, watching the only person who ever truly understood me walk away.
And she’s never coming back.
At some point after Rorie left, I made my way to the beach and have been sitting here for hours.
Her room has emptied, the whispers have faded into walls. The bracelet is still in my hand, still heavy with everything I didn’t say.
I run my thumb over the tiny wooden anchor that now feels like a fucking gravestone, staring out over the endless curve of the ocean.
But it doesn’t give a damn.
The sky bleeds gold and red, the sun drowning itself without ceremony. The only thing that stays is the echo of her voice.
I didn’t just lose her trust.
I didn’t just lose the chance.
I proved her right.
I became every worst-case scenario she ever dared believe in.
But she was never the prize. She was the point.
And I let her think she was just another move on the chess board. Another tactical advantage. When the truth—the brutal, aching, marrow-deep truth—is I was the one who was outmatched the second those bright blue eyes find mine.
There’s no strategy that prepares you for meeting the person who finally makes you want to stay. No blueprint for someone who rebuilds the whole goddamn architecture of your soul.
I press the anchor to my lips.
And for the first time in a long, long time—
I pray.
Not for forgiveness.
Not for another chance.
I pray that someday, somehow, when she’s standing on her own again—stronger, fiercer—she’ll know I loved her.
That even if I never deserved her, I saw her.
All of her.
And I fell.
Willingly.
Hopelessly.
Irrevocably.
I sit there on the beach, the warm sand swallowing my feet, the tide creeping closer with every passing minute like it’s trying to pull me under too.
The sun gives up slow, bleeding gold into bruised purple, then slipping into nothing at all.
The breeze sharpens, carrying the faint scent of salt and firepit smoke, stinging my eyes even though I know better than to blame it.
Above me, the first stars blink awake, cold and dispassionate, watching me fall apart from a distance.
My grip tightens on the bracelet until the edges of the anchor carve little half-moon indents into my hand. Tiny reminders that even now—even when I have nothing left—I’m still holding on.
I don’t move.
Not when the tide kisses my ankles.
Not when the last light dies.
Not even when the world forgets we were ever here.
The stars coming out one by one, cold and unbothered overhead.
And I make myself a promise.
Next time, if the universe is kind enough to put her in my path again…
I will not hesitate.
I will not fold.
I will not lose her.
Not even if it costs me everything else.