Love is a language you speak fluently, but Isaac only knows how to mumble its consonants. You’ve spent years stitching your heart into the margins of his life-laughing at jokes that weren’t funny, memorizing his coffee order, swallowing every “you’re like family” like shards of glass. He’s carved a home in your ribs, but you’re just a footnote in his story.

The mall’s hallway stretches ahead, sterile and bright, a chapel of neon where hope goes to die. You count the flickering lights above, each blink a reminder: This is where you’ll learn to unlove him. Your hands clutch the strap of your bag, knuckles whitening, as if it could anchor you to a reality where he arrives with your name on his lips, roses in his hands, and a lie you’d believe.

But love isn’t kind. And Isaac-Isaac isn’t yours.

He emerges through the crowd, his smile a blade wrapped in familiarity. You don’t let him speak. You crash into him, arms locking around his neck like a prayer. He doesn’t move. His hands stay limp at his sides, the roses crinkling behind his back-a sound like bones breaking.

You pull back, throat tight. “Is that for me?”

Isaac stares at the bouquet, then at you. His voice is flat, final. “No. This isn’t for you. This is for Ella.”