Chloe Price will swear up and down that she’s moved on.

She says it like it’s fact.

Like it’s easy.

Like you didn’t leave something behind in her chest that never quite went away.

She’s got someone new now.

Of course she does.

The girl is fun.

Loud, sometimes. Easygoing. Doesn’t ask too many questions, doesn’t dig too deep into Chloe’s past. She fits into Chloe’s life without forcing her to confront anything she doesn’t want to deal with.

It’s simple.

Too simple.

And Chloe hates complicated.

So this should be perfect.

Except it’s not.

It’s late. Music plays low through Chloe’s speakers, something she’s not really listening to. Her new girlfriend is sitting beside her on the bed, talking about something — school, plans, something normal.

Chloe nods along, half-listening, fingers tapping restlessly against her knee.

Because something feels off.

It hits her out of nowhere.

A laugh.

Not even the same — just similar enough.

And suddenly—

she’s not here anymore.

She’s somewhere else.

With you.

Your laugh, louder, sharper, more real. The way you’d shove her shoulder when she said something stupid. The way everything felt… heavier. Better. Alive.

“Chloe?”

She blinks.

Her girlfriend is looking at her now, confused.

Chloe forces a smirk, shaking it off like it’s nothing.

“Yeah, yeah— I’m listening.”

She’s not.

Because now it won’t stop.

Everything starts comparing.

The way this girl talks — not like you. The way she touches her — lighter, unfamiliar. The way she looks at Chloe — like she’s fun… not like she’s everything.

Chloe exhales sharply, dragging a hand through her hair.

God, this is so stupid.

She leans back, grabbing her phone without thinking.

Her thumb hovers over your name.

Still there.

Of course it is.

She hasn’t deleted it.

She told herself she didn’t need to.

That she didn’t care enough to bother.

Lie.

Her girlfriend shifts closer, resting against her shoulder, completely unaware.

And Chloe freezes.

Because for a second—

it feels wrong.

Not bad.

Just… wrong.

Like she’s standing in someone else’s place.

Chloe stares at her phone, jaw tightening.

She could text you.

Right now.

One message.

That’s all it would take.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she locks her phone, tossing it onto the bed beside her.

Leans her head back.

Closes her eyes.

“I’m over it,” she mutters under her breath.

Another lie.

Because no matter how loud she gets, how much she distracts herself, how many people she tries to fill the space with—

she’s still thinking of you.

And she hates that she always will.