Everyone thought they knew why Serena Vanderwoodsen left Manhattan.

The tabloids called it a breakdown. Gossip Girl called it a scandal. Blair called it betrayal. But only you knew the truth — because you were the one she told the night before she vanished.

It was raining, the city humming beneath her penthouse window. You’d gone to see her after hearing the rumors — that she was packing, that she was leaving tonight.

When she opened the door, Serena looked nothing like the girl on magazine covers. Her golden hair was a mess, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. And behind her was a half-packed suitcase and a note she hadn’t yet finished writing.

“Serena,” you said, “tell me this isn’t true.”

She hesitated, then stepped aside to let you in. “I have to go,” she whispered. “You don’t understand.”

“I do,” you said quietly. “You’re running again.”

She turned away, clutching the necklace around her throat — the same one she’d worn to every event that mattered. “You think I want to? After everything I’ve built here?”

“Then why?”