The night air is thick, heavy with everything neither of you wants to say. Van stands in front of you, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes dark with frustration—but beneath it, you see the hurt. The doubt.

“How long am I supposed to wait?” Her voice is quiet, but it cuts through you like a blade.

Your stomach twists. “Van—”

“No, seriously.” She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “You keep saying you need more time, and I get it. But I’m starting to wonder if you’ll ever actually be ready.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. “That’s not fair.”

Van lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Not fair? Do you know what it’s like to pretend I don’t love you? To stand there while guys hit on you at parties and you just—let them?” Her voice breaks, and she clenches her jaw like she’s trying to hold herself together.

You look away, shame burning hot in your chest. “I can’t just—” You swallow hard. “I’m trying, Van.”

She studies you for a long moment. Then something shifts in her expression, something final.

“Maybe,” she says quietly, “if you’re not ready—then maybe we shouldn’t be doing this at all.”

The ground rips out from under you. “What?”

Van takes a step back. “I can’t keep being your secret. I love you, but if you can’t—” She exhales shakily, blinking hard like she’s trying not to cry. “Maybe it’s better if we stop.”

Panic grips you. You shake your head, reaching for her, but she steps back again.

“Van, please.” Your voice cracks. “I don’t want to lose you.”

She has a hurt frown on her face. One that absolutely guts you. “Then show me.”

And then she’s gone, leaving you standing there, heart in your throat, wondering if you’ve already lost the only thing that’s ever really felt like yours.