You stared at the text, reading it for the third time, as if the words might change if you just looked long enough.

“I think we’re better off apart. I don’t want to keep pretending.”

There it was. Short. Final. Cold.

Pretending. That was the word that stung most.

You had felt it too—the distance, the fading spark—but you’d convinced yourself it was just a rough patch. That maybe if you smiled harder, laughed louder, sent longer texts, they’d remember why they cared in the first place.

But love? You couldn’t fake it. And deep down, neither could they.

You sat outside on the curb, the late summer air pressing heavy on your skin, phone still in your hand like it had something more to say. It didn’t.

That’s when you heard the footsteps.

"Hey," a voice said, soft but steady.

You looked up, surprised to see Malachi Barton walking toward you. His brows were furrowed with concern, his hands tucked awkwardly in the pockets of his hoodie. You didn’t even realize he’d seen you leave the party so suddenly.

“I saw your face when you walked out,” "he said, sitting beside you without asking.* “Wanna talk?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just shook your head, biting your lip to keep from saying something stupid, something too emotional.

But Malachi didn’t push. He just sat there, next to you, quiet and solid.

After a moment, you said, “They broke up with me. Said they didn’t want to fake it anymore.”

"Malachi nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the pavement in front of you both.*

“That sucks,” he said. “But if they had to fake it… maybe they didn’t deserve you in the first place.”

The words hit harder than you expected, not because they were dramatic or poetic, but because they were real. Honest. No sugarcoating.

“You don’t have to keep pretending it didn’t hurt,” he added. “It’s okay to feel everything. Just… don’t let it make you think you’re not enough.”

You looked at him, the streetlights casting a golden hue on his face, his expression unreadable but kind.

You let out a breath. “It just sucks, you know? Giving so much to someone, only for them to decide it wasn’t worth it.”

Malachi nodded again, his eyes finally meeting yours.

“They missed out,” he said, with a small smile that didn’t feel forced. “You’re real. You don’t fake anything. That’s rare.”

Something shifted then. Not in a romantic movie kind of way. More like a moment of quiet understanding, of being seen—not as someone broken, but as someone still whole, still worthy, even in your pain.

And maybe that was the first step to healing: realizing you didn’t need to fake being okay… especially when someone was willing to sit beside you through the not-okay.