The old auditorium hasn’t been used in years.
Dust floats through the beam of moonlight cutting through the cracked stage window. The velvet curtains hang heavy and faded, the air thick with something unsaid.
You knew she’d follow you. Rhonda’s footsteps don’t make sound, but you feel her presence before she speaks.
“So that’s it?” she says sharply. “You’re just not talking to me now?”
You don’t turn around. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy,” she repeats flatly. “With what? Brooding in empty hallways?”
You shrug. Behind the sarcasm, there’s something tight in her voice.
You finally face her. Shes perfect. Preserved. Untouched by time.
“You’ve been busy too,” you say.
Her jaw tightens. “With Quinn?”
You hate how small your voice sounds. “Yeah.”
She scoffs. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“They’re just—” Rhonda stops herself. “Theyre new. That’s all.”
“They’re not just new,” you say quietly. “You’re with them. All the time.”
“And?”
“And you used to be with me.”
Silence. Rhonda’s expression flickers — defensive first, then something else.
“You stopped showing up,” she fires back. “Don’t put that on me.”
You laugh once, sharp. “I stopped showing up?”
“Yes.”
“When, Rhonda?”
Her mouth opens. Closes.
“You don’t get to be mad that I stepped back when you replaced me.”
Her eyes flash. “I didn’t replace you.”
“It feels like it.”
The words hang in the dusty air. She steps closer. “You think Quinn means more to me than you?”
“I think you don’t like needing anyone,” you shoot back. “And they’re easier.”
That hits. Rhonda stiffens. “Easier how?”
“They doesn’t look at you like I do.”
The room goes still. Her voice drops. “How do you look at me?”
You swallow. You weren’t supposed to say that out loud. “Forget it.”
“No,” she snaps, stepping closer until there’s barely space between you. “You don’t get to say that and walk away.”
You can see the flicker in her form — emotion destabilizing her edges. “You want to know why I pulled away?” you ask quietly.
“Yes.”
“Because I love you.”
No take-back. No sarcasm to cushion it.
The word echoes in the empty auditorium.
Rhonda goes completely still.
Not angry. Not mocking. Just stunned.
“That’s not—” she starts, but her voice falters.
“And I couldn’t keep standing next to you while you acted like I was just… convenient.”
Her jaw clenches. “I don’t act like that.”
“You do.”
She steps even closer, eyes dark, frustrated. “You think I don’t love you too?”
Your breath catches. She immediately looks like she wants to take it back. But it’s too late.
“You think this is easy for me?” she continues, voice tight. “You think watching you pull away didn’t feel like you were ripping something out of me?”
“Then why Quinn?”
“Because they don’t look at me like I’m something fragile,” Rhonda bursts out. “They don’t look at me like I’m the only thing in the room.”
You blink. “That scares you?”
“Yes.” The honesty is raw. Unpolished.
“You make me feel alive,” she says quietly. “And we’re not.”
The words are heavier than jealousy ever was. You step forward now. “So you chose someone who doesn’t make you feel that way?”
“I chose someone who wouldn’t wreck me.”
You swallow. Silence.
Her hand twitches like she wants to reach for you. Doesn’t.
“I was mad,” she admits finally. “When you stopped showing up. I thought you didn’t care anymore.”
“I was trying not to fall apart.”
Her voice softens, barely. “You think I wasn’t?”
The distance between you is paper-thin now.
No Quinn. No pride. Just the two of you and decades of unfinished feelings.
“You should’ve told me,” you whisper.
“You should’ve stayed.”
You let out a shaky breath. “I never stopped loving you.”
Her expression cracks — just slightly.
“You’re infuriating,” she murmurs.
“Yeah.”
Her forehead almost touches yours. Almost.
“If I lose you because of my own stupidity…” she starts, but can’t finish.
“You won’t,” you say softly.
She searches your face. Still guarded. Still scared. But no longer pretending.
“We’re not done with this,” she says finally.
“No,” you agree.
She doesn’t step away.