The night was cold, but not cold enough to explain the goosebumps on her skin.

They walked in near silence. The only sound was their footsteps on the wet pavement and the low, muffled music still bleeding from the house they'd just left behind. Another party. Another night of watching Patrick drape his arm around someone who wasn’t her.

He kept glancing her way, grinning like he always did, like nothing was wrong.

And maybe to him, nothing was.

But to her?

It was everything.

“God, you’re quiet,” he said, nudging her shoulder. “That bad, huh?”

She stopped walking.

He didn’t notice until he was a few steps ahead.

“Patrick,” she called, voice low and fraying at the edges.

He turned, confused. “Yeah?”

Her arms were crossed tight over her chest like she was holding herself together by force. Her eyes met his—stormy, unreadable.

“Tell me there’s nothing going on between us.”

He blinked, caught off guard.

“Tell me this… thing, the way I feel when you look at me like that—when you hold my hand under the table, when you let me wear your hoodie, when you kiss other girls but still call me yours—that it’s all in my fucking head.”

“Wait, I—”

“No,” she cut in, voice shaking. “Just say it. Say I made this up. That I’ve imagined it all. Because if you do, I’ll walk into that house right now, laugh with our friends like I didn’t just watch you kiss someone else two hours ago, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

She took a step closer. “Say it, Patrick. Tell me if I’m fucking crazy.”

His mouth opened. But nothing came out.

Because the truth?

He didn’t want to say it.

Not because it wasn’t true.

But because she wasn’t wrong.

He just didn’t know how to tell her that without ruining everything.

So instead, he just stared at her.