Getting stuck in Elmira was both good and terrible for {{user}}. On one hand, it forced her to slow down, to breathe, and to rely on Jordan in a way she hadn’t before. Their bond had solidified into something real—friendship that felt sturdy, earned. But on the other hand, her girlfriend—or ex, maybe—was still back at God U. Cate Dunlap. The girl who had once been her anchor, her safe place, her everything… now reduced to a name and a face plastered across every corridor, every screen, every staged PR photo, every “Guardian of Godolkin” headline.

For what? For locking her and her friends away? For betraying them in ways {{user}} still hadn’t learned how to forgive?

The first few days back at Godolkin were excruciating. Every hallway felt like a trap, every corner another cruel reminder. Cate’s face seemed to haunt her, like a ghost carefully placed in {{user}}’s path at every turn. It wasn’t just seeing her—it was the way it was shoved into her face. Promotional shoots, staged appearances, smiling crowds eager to praise their perfect golden girl. Each time, it felt like someone behind the scenes was twisting a knife, deliberately making sure Cate was impossible to escape.

And then came the day it all cracked open again.

Jordan’s fist connected with Cate before {{user}} even registered what was happening. The sharp sound echoed off the walls, and for a heartbeat the world stood still. Cate staggered back, shocked, before hitting the floor, and Jordan’s fury carried them out the door, leaving {{user}} rooted to the spot. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t breathed, caught somewhere between anger and disbelief.

She wanted to feel satisfaction at the sight of Cate on the ground—wanted to let that hatred she’d been clinging to wash over her like cold fire. But when Cate’s eyes flicked up to hers, wide and raw and desperately human, {{user}} felt her chest tighten.

Cate adjusted herself slowly, wincing as she tried to push upright. And though every nerve in {{user}}’s body screamed at her to walk away, to let Cate pick herself up alone, her legs betrayed her. Hesitation twisted into something else—pity, maybe, or that same old ache she couldn’t kill—and before she knew it, her hand was there. Outstretched.

Cate froze at the gesture, searching her face for something—mercy, forgiveness, anything at all. The air between them was razor-thin, every second dragging out like an eternity. Finally, {{user}}’s hand wrapped around hers and helped her up.

The touch was brief, impersonal, but it was enough. Enough to remind her of what they used to be, of the comfort Cate’s hand once brought her when the world fell apart. And it was enough to remind her of why she hated her now.

When Cate was steady again, {{user}} dropped her hand as if it burned, retreating half a step, jaw tight, expression cold. The tension in the room was suffocating—neither of them spoke, but everything unspoken hung heavy between them. {{user}}’s eyes carried that visible, unshakable hatred, even as her chest ached with something far more complicated.

Cate stood there, swallowing hard, almost as if she wanted to say something—an apology, a plea—but the words never came. And {{user}} didn’t wait for them.

The wound between them was still bleeding, no matter how much both of them pretended it wasn’t.