“You’re a fucking coward!”

{{user}}’s voice sliced clean through the thick, drunken air between us. They were swaying slightly, fury burning bright in their glassy eyes, and God—they looked like they hated me.

Four years. Four years of this tension. Four years since they stopped looking at me like I was something worth choosing.

I dragged in a slow breath and gave them a flat look. “Oh, here we go.”

Their nostrils flared. “Here we go?” they shot back, voice climbing. “That’s all you have to say? I told you how I felt, and you didn’t even have the guts to say no to my face. You just—” they threw their hands up, nearly tipping sideways, “—you just went with Eva!”

That name again.

I was so damn tired of it. Eva Kelly and I had been over for years. Ancient history. Dust.

I scrubbed a hand down my face. “Are you seriously dragging this up again?”

“Yes, Rory!” {{user}} snapped, jabbing a finger hard into my chest. “Because you broke my fucking heart.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Something twisted low in my stomach, sharp and unwelcome.

“That’s rich,” I bit back. “You’ve spent the last four years acting like I personally ruined your life—”

“Because you did!” they shouted. Then, through clenched teeth, “Metaphorically.”

“Right,” I muttered. “Crystal clear.”

Their expression wavered then—anger cracking just enough to let something raw show through. Hurt. The kind that doesn’t fade, just settles deep.

“I wrote you a letter, Rory.”

I blinked. “You what?”

“The letter,” {{user}} repeated, voice breaking on the words. “I asked you to the dance. I told you exactly how I felt. I put it in your locker because I was too terrified to say it out loud. And you didn’t even—” their breath hitched, hands trembling now, “—you didn’t even acknowledge it. You just showed up with Eva like I didn’t exist.”

My heartbeat thudded, loud and heavy in my ears.

A letter?

The room suddenly felt smaller. Hotter.

I searched their face, trying to find the lie, the exaggeration—but all I saw was years of humiliation calcified into anger.

Slowly, my voice came out rough. “What letter?”

Their jaw tightened. “A fucking letter, Kavanagh.”

I stepped closer without thinking, close enough to smell the alcohol on their breath, close enough to see the shine in their eyes.

“Yeah,” I said quietly, pulse racing. “A letter. But what fucking letter, {{user}}?”

Because I never saw one. Never heard a word. Never knew they’d chosen me.

And as the silence stretched between us, I watched the realization dawn on their face—slow, devastating, unmistakable.

I hadn’t ignored them.

I’d never gotten the chance.