Chapter 30
Evelyn
Friday
Friday. Sammy corners me at lunch. She doesn’t sit down gently. She drops into the chair across from me like a judge delivering a sentence. “You’re ghosting him.”
I blink once. Slow. Deliberate. “I’m doing my job.”
“Don’t lie to me, Eve.” Her eyes soften, but her voice doesn’t. “I see you. You’re breaking again.”
Breaking. The word lands as a bruise pressed too hard. I keep my gaze on the condensation sliding down my water glass. “If I’m breaking, maybe I deserve to.”
She exhales sharply. “Jesus, you don’t deserve pain just because someone didn’t choose you.” The sting hits deeper than she knows.
I swallow. “I didn’t say he didn’t choose me.”
“No,” she says quietly. “But you think he did.”
I don’t reply. Because silence is safer than the truth trying to claw its way out of my chest.
Sammy leans forward, elbows on the table. “Talk to him.”
I laugh. Not the real kind. The sharp, brittle kind that feels like glass cracking under pressure. “Talk to him?” I repeat. “So, he can tell me she’s just a friend? Or worse—confirm that she’s not?”
“Evelyn—”
“I don’t need their story.”
“Maybe you do.”
“I don’t,” I snap, before lowering my voice.
“I really don’t.” Because the story won’t change the reality: He walked past my desk with her on his arm.
He told me he had a date. He didn’t deny her kiss.
He didn’t deny her history. He didn’t deny that she looks like she belongs in a world I’ll never touch.
There’s nothing to talk about.
“I thought…” My voice thins. “I really thought maybe—just maybe—I could have something good for once.”
Sammy’s face softens instantly. “Oh, baby. You did have something good.”
“Exactly,” I whisper. “And good things don’t stay.”
I stand abruptly. The chair legs screech across the tile. My food sits untouched. My appetite evaporated days ago.
“Evelyn—wait—”
“I can’t,” I murmur, grabbing my bag. I walk out of the restaurant before she can say anything else. The cold air outside hits me like truth. And all I can think is—If I don’t start pulling away now, I won’t survive the ending.