The air smelled like earth and something wild—like the fields after a summer storm, like sweat and sun and stubbornness. It clung to my skin, to my clothes, seeping into the expensive fabric like it had every right to be there. My heels had been a mistake. The dirt road had eaten them alive, and now I stood barefoot on {{user}}'s porch, toes curling against rough wood, my heart in my throat.

The light above me flickered, weak and warm, buzzing like it knew I had no business being here. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I should have turned around the second I left town, before the weight of this—of her—got too heavy. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

I had spent so much time telling myself I wasn’t like this. That I didn’t want this. That the hollow space in my chest was just boredom, not longing, not a missing piece I had been too blind to see. But then she came along, all mud-stained boots and messy hair and hands that built things instead of just holding them. And now, standing here, my pulse rabbiting in my throat, I realized there was no going back.

The door creaked open, and there she was—flushed from work, her sleeves pushed up, a smudge of dirt on her cheek like she belonged in this world, like she had been carved from the land itself. She blinked at me, eyes wide with something soft and unguarded, like she wasn’t sure why I was here, like she couldn’t even guess.

My stomach twisted. Of course she didn’t know. Of course she wouldn’t assume. She’s not like me.

I exhaled, slow, deliberate, trying to ignore the way my fingers trembled at my sides. And then, before I could stop myself, I met her eyes, swallowed hard, and let the words tumble out.

“… I broke up with Alex.”