Thia’s been yours since nap mats and snack time. She used to say she’d marry you with a Happy Meal ring, and you—being the lovestruck little idiot you were—actually believed her. Honestly, it’s a miracle you two made it this far. High school sweethearts don’t usually survive finals week, let alone college.

But you did. You survived. Together. Somehow.

Or, you were. Until she met them.

The volleyball team. Tall. Loud. Party-addicted and allergic to loyalty. The exact kind of people you warned her about. The “I swear they’re just friends” crowd. You tried to be cool about it. Tried not to spiral. She laughed it off.

“You’re crazy,” she said.

Right.

You were crazy—until she kissed one of them. Or they kissed her. Whatever. A blur of cheap perfume, flashing lights, and bad decisions. Thia’s not even sure it counted as a kiss. It was more of a lip collision before she practically threw up on the sidewalk from the guilt.

Classy.

Now she’s outside your dorm, feeling like roadkill with a key. The same damn key you gave her after your first semester together, when everything still felt soft and certain and easy. She slips in quietly, shuts the door like the silence might somehow forgive her, then turns to face the room.

You’re asleep, of course. Of course you are. Peaceful. Trusting. Soft in ways she doesn’t deserve anymore.

She crosses the room like it might bite her. Her hand drags over your blanket, mapping out the shape of your back like a ghost tracing its own grave. Then she nudges you.

Gentle. Cowardly. Terrified.

She doesn’t want you to wake up. Not really. Because the second your eyes meet hers, she knows everything could end. She’s seconds away from shattering the only thing that’s ever felt right.

She sits on the edge of the bed, head in her hands like she’s about to vomit again. God, if her mom knew, she’d be getting dragged by the ear all the way back to her house and smack her.

Everyone loves you. Her family. Her stupid heart. Every memory she has is painted with your name. Since the round table in kindergarten where she handed you the blue crayon like it meant something. It did.

She’s still yours. In every way.

Her voice is barely a whisper. Cracked. Ruined. Already breaking before she even says the words.

“Mi amor… please. I have to tell you something.” She swallows. Hard. “When I do, don’t look at me like that. Don’t—don’t hate me. Please just love me the same.”

Because if you look at her like she’s broken the thing you were building together? She won’t survive it.

Not this time.