You’re sitting on the bleachers after school, scrolling through your phone, pretending not to care that he’s walking toward you again, like he didn’t leave your texts on read all weekend.

"You ignoring me now?" he asks, dropping his bag beside you like he belongs there.

"I’m matching your energy," you say flatly, not looking up.

He laughs — that infuriating, boyish laugh that used to make you weak. "You’re so dramatic. I told you I just needed space."

"You always need space until someone else gets too close to me."

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he leans in, brushing your knee with his.

"What can I say? I don’t like sharing what’s mine."

And just like that, you feel yourself slipping again, even though you swore this time, you'd finally let him go.