53
Hannah
I wake up still wearing Nate’s shirt.
Not the one I’ve been hiding in my bottom drawer like a relic, but the one from last night.
It feels different—a fresh weight against my skin, a new exhibit in the museum of evidence I’ve built inside this room.
For a long, suspended minute, I don’t move.
I just lie there under my blanket, staring at the dull morning light as it crawls across the ceiling, feeling the phantom pressure of his hands still mapped out on my body.
Every muscle in my legs feels heavy, a persistent, humming ache that keeps me grounded in the memory of his bed. The way his voice sounded in the dark, rough and low: *I know how to want you.*
That sentence has teeth. They aren't sharp enough to draw blood, but they’ve hooked into me so deeply I don't think I’ll ever be able to shake them.
My phone is cold against my cheek. I must have fallen asleep clutching it, waiting for some kind of verdict to arrive through the screen.
Nate hadn't texted again after his final message: *I’ll be here after.
* "After." That word is the whole day now.
It’s the horizon I have to reach. After I talk to Ethan.
After I stop pretending that my heart is a polite, shared space.
After I become the kind of person who can look a good man in the eyes and tell him I broke the promise of *us* because I was too scared to admit it was always someone else.
My stomach performs a slow, sickening roll. I sit up too fast, and the room tilts. Every part of me feels tender—my body, my head, my conscience. Especially my conscience.
Ella is already at her desk, the soft click-clack of her keyboard the only sound in the room.
She’s wearing a sweatshirt and pajama pants, her hair a chaotic bun held together by sheer willpower.
Gerald Reed-Wilder is perched beside her laptop, his plastic eyes fixed on the door as if he’s guarding my secrets.
She turns slowly when she hears the rustle of my sheets. Her eyes drop to the neckline of the shirt I’m wearing, then lift to mine. She doesn’t say anything.
“Don’t,” I whisper, my voice sounding like it’s been dragged through gravel.
“I wasn’t going to,” she says, her expression softening into something so empathetic it actually hurts.
“I have to talk to Ethan today,” I say, the words landing like lead on the floor. “I texted Nate. He said he’d be there after.”
Ella turns her chair fully toward me, resting her chin in her hand. “Of course he did. He’s been waiting in the ‘after’ for weeks, Han.”
I look down at my hands. I hate that I am relieved. I hate that I needed Nate’s promise of being there as a reward for doing the right thing. The right thing shouldn't require a safety net.
“I don’t want to make this about Nate,” I say quietly.
“Then don’t,” Ella says, standing up and coming to sit on the edge of my bed. “Make it about Ethan. Make it about the truth he deserves. You can’t make this not hurt, but you can make it clean.”
"Clean." That’s the word Nate used—or maybe it was just the feeling he left behind.
“I don’t deserve clean,” I say, the tears finally starting to well up. “I left him at a party, Ella. I followed Nate. I slept with him before I even told Ethan it was over. I’m awful.”
“No,” Ella says, her grip on my hand tightening. “You did something wrong. You made a messy, human mistake because you were overwhelmed. That does not make you an awful person. It makes you a person who finally stopped lying.”
I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand, but the tears are winning. “I don’t know what to say to him.”
“Yes, you do. You tell him enough. Not the details—he doesn’t need a play-by-play of last night. He needs the truth: that you can’t keep seeing him while you want someone else.”
I nod, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. I look at my dresser. The bottom drawer is closed, but I can feel Nate’s other shirt inside it, vibrating with the secret of him.
“I should change,” I mutter.
I pull Nate’s shirt over my head, holding it for a second. It smells like him—soap, cold air, and that deep, grounding scent that makes my knees weak. I fold it with shaking hands and place it in the bottom drawer next to the other one. Two shirts now. Two pieces of a life I’m finally claiming.
I put on a plain white sweater and jeans. I don't want to look cute. I don't want to look like I’m trying to soften the blow. My phone buzzes on the bed. My whole body jolts.
**Ethan:** *Can we talk today?*
My breath hitches. He knows. Maybe not the specifics, but he felt the shift on that lawn last night.
**Hannah:** *Yes. Library path? 11?*
**Ethan:** *Okay.*
Just "Okay." No warmth. No smiley face. The distance in that one word is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.
The walk to the library is a blur. The campus is offensively normal—students laughing, the smell of coffee, the distant sound of a frisbee being thrown. I feel like I’m walking to my own execution.
At 11:00 sharp, I see him. Ethan is standing by the library steps, looking exhausted. Not angry, just drained. When he sees me, his face does that instinctive thing—it starts to soften before he remembers he’s not allowed to love me today.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
We head toward the path behind the library, where the trees are bare and the ground is a carpet of dead, brown leaves. We walk in silence for a long time, the only sound the rhythmic crunch beneath our feet.
“You went after him,” Ethan says eventually. He doesn't look at me.
“Yes.”
He exhales, a long, tired sound. “I figured.”
“I’m sorry, Ethan.”
He stops near a bench and finally looks at me. His eyes are bright with hurt, but he’s still so damn kind it makes me want to scream. “Did you want me to stop you?”
“No,” I whisper. “I wouldn't have listened.”
“I know.” He shakes his head. “I think I knew the second he walked away that the air in the room went with him.”
My heart squeezes so hard it hurts. “I need to be honest. I went to his apartment. And... something happened.”
The words are out. The air between us goes cold. Ethan blinks, his jaw working as he processes the "something."
“You slept with him?” he asks, his voice barely audible.
“Yes.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like something shattering deep inside. He looks away, staring at the bare branches of the trees. The silence is a physical weight, heavy and jagged. I want to fill it with apologies, but I remember Ella’s voice: *Don't make him comfort you.*
“Last night,” he says. “After you kissed me.”
“Yes.”
“After I was patient. After I told you there was no rush.” He lets out a short, bitter laugh. “I feel like I was standing in a room where everyone knew the punchline but me.”
“No,” I cry out, reaching for him and then pulling back. “It wasn't like that. I didn't know either. I wanted it to be you, Ethan. I really did. You were so good to me.”
“Being good isn't a currency, Hannah,” he says, finally looking back at me. “It doesn't buy the way you look at him.”
I can't breathe. The tears are flowing freely now, hot and stinging. “I’m sorry. I can’t keep seeing you while I want him.”
Ethan nods. He looks older than he did yesterday. “Right. I should have seen it sooner. I’m not mad... I’m just... catching up.”
“You’re not a bad person, Hannah,” he adds, and the kindness of it nearly destroys me. “But you did something that hurt. A lot.”
“I know.”
“I hope he’s worth it,” Ethan says, stepping back. It’s not a jab; it’s a sincere, heartbreaking wish. “I need some space. I don’t think I can be the friend who hears about how great it is with him.”
“I understand.”
He turns and walks away, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders straight. I watch him go until he’s just a blur in the distance. When he’s gone, my knees give out, and I sink onto the bench, burying my face in my hands.
I sit there for a long time, letting the cold air numb me. It’s over. The safe choice, the good boy, the easy path—all of it is gone.
Finally, I pull out my phone.
**Hannah:** *I told him. It’s over with Ethan. I need a little time before I see you.*
**Nate:** *Okay. Take all the time you need. Are you okay?*
**Hannah:** *No. But I will be.*
**Nate:** *I’m here.*
I press the phone to my chest. I’m not running to him yet. Ethan deserved more than being a bridge I used to get to someone else. I need to walk alone for a while, feeling the full weight of what I’ve done.
The path ahead isn't clean. It’s messy and complicated and full of fallout. But for the first time in months, as I walk back toward the fountain, it’s finally honest.