The silence is the worst part.

Not the smashed mirror. Not the ripped-up polaroids or the hoodies lying in a heap on the floor. Not even the way she won’t look at me.

It’s the silence.

She’s curled up on my window bench, knees pulled to her chest, staring out at the rain like she’s anywhere but here. Her chest rises and falls in these shallow little breaths, and when I look closer—Jesus. She’s crying. Not loud, not shaking. Just… silent.

And I think that’s what does it. What makes my stomach twist in knots so tight I can barely breathe.

I run a hand down my face, exhaling hard. “Say something.”

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

“Christ,” I mutter, scrubbing my palms over my thighs. “Scream at me. Slap me across the face. Just—just say something.”

Still nothing.

I shift on the floor, trying to ground myself, but all I can see is the mess she dumped in here like it meant nothing. Three years. That’s what’s lying at my feet. Three fucking years, gone in the space of a night.

A night I don’t even fucking remember properly.

A few drinks too many. Lizzie’s sharp grin, her fingers in my hair, pulling me down, dragging me back into something I thought was buried. And fuck, maybe some part of me wanted to. Maybe that sick little part of my brain wanted to see if it still felt the same, if the girl who ruined me when I was twelve could ruin me all over again.

But she didn’t.

Because all I felt when I woke up the next morning was sick. Sick and hollow and so full of guilt I could barely fucking breathe.

I clear my throat, voice hoarse. “It didn’t mean anything.”

She exhales sharply, like I’ve just driven a knife straight through her ribs.

I fucking hate myself.