It wasn’t supposed to end in a grocery store parking lot.

Not under flickering fluorescent lights. Not with Tyler’s voice low and sharp like he was trying not to embarrass her, but still cutting deep enough to leave marks.

Cyrene stands there, arms crossed tight over her chest, like she’s holding herself together manually.

“You always do this,” Tyler says.

She doesn’t ask what this is.

She already knows.

The emotional distance. The way she flinches when he touches her lately. The way she’s somewhere else even when she’s right in front of him.

“You look at me like you’re waiting for something better,” he says.

Her jaw tightens.

“That’s projection,” she replies flatly.

But it isn’t.

She knows what she truly is, the crippling feeling of hating yourself for secretly liking girls. Being consumed by internalised homophobia.

The rain starts before either of them notice.

Not dramatic. Just steady. Cold.

Tyler exhales, frustrated. “I don’t even think you like me anymore.”

Silence.

That’s the answer.

And it scares her more than anything he could’ve said.

“You know what?” he laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Forget it. I’m done trying to compete with whatever’s in your head.”

He gets in the car.

Drives away.

Cyrene doesn’t move.

The rain soaks through her hoodie. Through her hair. Through the thin armor she keeps polished and sharp.

She tells herself she should feel devastated.

Instead she feels exposed.

Like something private has just been dragged into fluorescent light.

—

She walks.

No destination. Just movement.

Her hands are shaking but she refuses to acknowledge it. She shoves them into her pockets like that’ll fix it.

The city feels different tonight. Too open. Too aware.

She ends up where she always does when she doesn’t want to think.

The 24-hour convenience store on the corner of 9th.

The one with the broken vending machine outside.

The one with the buzzing sign that never fully lights up.

You’re there.

Of course you are.

You’re sitting on the curb under the overhang, sheltered from the rain, a notebook balanced on your knee. Headphones in. Hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands.

You don’t notice her at first.

Cyrene notices you immediately.

She always does.

You’ve been here on nights she didn’t want to admit she needed air. On nights she walked past with Tyler’s hand in hers and forced herself not to look too long.

You were a safe distance.

A star.

Close enough to see. Far enough not to touch.

She hesitates.

Then steps under the overhang.

The rain suddenly sounds louder behind her.

You glance up.

Recognition flickers across your face — subtle, but there.

“You’re soaked,” you say, pulling one headphone down.

Your voice isn’t dramatic. It isn’t probing.

It’s just an observation.

Cyrene shrugs.

“It’s water.”

Her tone is sharp by default. Defensive by design.

You study her a second too long.

Her mascara isn’t running. She didn’t cry.

But her eyes look wrong.

“You look like you lost something,” you say.

Not pitying.

Just factual.

Her lips twitch — almost a scoff.

“Didn’t,” she replies. “Just dropped dead weight.”