It ended the moment those fateful words—I love you—escaped my lips, dissipating into the frigid winter night, a night that felt colder still after our jagged conversation. They not only rejected me, but with a cruel precision, confessed to being in love—just not with me.

The pain was indescribable, a sharp, unexpected twist of the knife. And the one who had captured their heart? His initials bore the unmistakable marks of 'H' and 'W.'

To say I was doing badly would be a grotesque understatement. I had been teetering on the brink of despair for two months, ever since we killed Bunny. Since then, we've all had to wear our masks, feigning concern, to act as if we hadn’t shoved him off that cliff, as if his absence wasn’t a relief. It made everything worse, not just for me, but for everyone. None of us admitted it, but we were all unraveling.

In that moment, all I wanted was to lose myself in their embrace, to have them soothe me and whisper the lies I needed to hear—that everything would be okay, even though we both knew it wouldn’t. I wanted to be kissed, held, to feel their skin against mine just one more time.

I didn’t care about the promises we’d made to keep our distance, to stay away because of our tumultuous past. I didn’t care that their heart belonged to someone else—I didn’t care that they loved someone else, that they had broken my heart in ways I hadn’t even known were possible. I just needed them—like air, like life itself.

So I stopped caring. On a rainy afternoon, after everyone had retreated to their homes post-class, I made my way to their door, my hair drenched, dripping as I waited for their presence once more. Humiliation seared through me, but I was past pride.

All I wanted was to hold them, just one more time.