"Are you okay?" he asked.

And I knew it was him.

Not a memory.

Not something my brain created to calm me down.

Not the version of him that only existed when I was breaking apart.

It was him.

And somehow—

That made everything worse.

Because out of all the things that could be real in that moment... it had to be him.

Of course it did.

I blinked slowly, my breathing still uneven, my chest still tight, my head spinning in too many directions at once.

This couldn't be real.

It couldn't.

And yet—

There he was.

Close.

Too close.

Looking at me like he cared.

And I hated that.

I hated how real it felt.

I hated how much it affected me.

I hated—

Him.

My gaze shifted away from his face, like I couldn't handle it for too long, like looking at him too directly would make everything collapse again.

"I don't want to talk to you," I said quietly.

The words came out before I could soften them.

Before I could take them back.

And the second they left my mouth—

I saw it.

That flicker.

That small, almost invisible shift in his expression.

Like something hit.

Not hard.

But enough.

He didn't move away.

Of course he didn't.

"I'm trying to help," he said.

His voice was calm.

Controlled.

Too controlled.

"You're not," I replied, shaking my head slightly. "You're just making it worse."

A small pause.

"That's not what I meant—"

And I laughed.

Not a normal laugh.

Not even a controlled one.

It slipped out of me—sharp, broken, almost hysterical.

"Oh my God," I said, dragging a hand over my face. "It's like you don't know how to say anything else."

He frowned, confused. "What are you talking about?"

I looked at him again.

Really looked.

And for a second, I wasn't even sure if I was talking about now... or about something that had been stuck in my head for years.

"Maybe I'm just too focused on the words you say," I muttered, my voice uneven. "Maybe I just can't hear anything else anymore."

"Maddie—what are you talking about?"

"That you didn't mean it."

The words hung there.

Heavy.

He blinked, taken aback for a second, clearly misunderstanding.

"If you're talking about earlier—about what I said yesterday during the game—" he started, "I meant it. I meant that I didn't mean it."

I let out another breathless laugh, shaking my head.

"It just gets worse," I said. "Every time you say it, it just gets worse."

"What are you even—"

"You know what?" I cut in, closing my eyes for a second. "It doesn't matter. I just—"

I swallowed.

My chest tightened again.

"I really need you to leave."

"No."

The word came out sharp.

Firm.

Final.

My eyes snapped back to his.

"I wasn't asking," I said.

"Yeah," he replied, just as steady. "And I wasn't either."

I stared at him.

"Did you hear me stutter?" he added quietly. "I said no. I'm not leaving."

Something in me snapped.

"Fine," I said, my voice colder now. "Then do whatever the hell you want. But don't act like I made you do anything. Don't stand there like I turned you into some kind of—robot that exists to respond to me. I never asked for that."

"I know," he said.

That stopped me.

"Then why?" I asked, my voice softer now, but sharper in meaning. "Why did you do it?"

He hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then—

"Because I wanted to."

Silence.

I stared at him.

Trying to understand.

Trying to process.

And he let out a quiet, almost ironic laugh.

"What?" he said. "Is that so surprising? You're only realizing that now?"

I didn't answer.

Because I didn't know how to.

Because everything felt too tangled to pull apart.

"I don't want to talk to you right now," I said finally, my voice weaker now. "I feel—confused. My head hurts. I just—can you leave?"

"No."

Again.

Same tone.

Same certainty.

"I said it before," he added. "I'm not leaving you."

I exhaled sharply, my hands tightening around my arms.

"I need to breathe," I said, louder now, looking straight at him. "I need space. And if you're here—I can't breathe."

He held my gaze.

Didn't move.

Didn't soften.

"Well," he said quietly, "it sucks, doesn't it?"

I frowned, thrown off. "What?"

"Not being able to breathe," he said. "Yeah. It sucks."

My expression hardened. "So can you just—"

"Good."

That word cut through me.

"Good," he repeated. "Then at least you can feel a little bit of what I feel every time I look at you."

Silence.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

And suddenly—

Breathing wasn't the problem anymore.

He was.

I didn't say anything.

I couldn't.

The words just... stopped somewhere between my chest and my throat, tangled up with everything else I was trying not to feel.

So I just looked at him.

And for once—

I didn't interrupt.

I didn't argue.

I didn't deflect.

I just... stayed quiet.

Luke held my gaze for a second longer.

Then he stood.

Slowly.

Like the energy between us had nowhere else to go but movement.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once across the room, then back again, his steps measured but restless. Like he was trying to organize something inside his head and failing.

I stayed where I was.

Curled against the wall.

Still trying to breathe.

Still trying to catch up to everything that had just been said.

And he kept walking.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

His hand moved to his forehead now, pressing lightly like he could physically hold his thoughts in place, like if he stopped moving, everything would spill out too fast.

I watched him.

Helplessly.

Because even now—

Even like this—

He made everything feel too loud.

Too real.

After a while—

He stopped.

Just... stopped.

I felt it before I saw it.

That shift.

That stillness.

So I looked up.

And he was already looking at me.

Something different in his eyes now.

Not anger.

Not frustration.

Something deeper.

Something more... dangerous.

"Did it never occur to you?" he asked.

My brows furrowed slightly.

"What?" My voice came out quieter than I intended.

He took a small step closer.

"Did it never occur to you," he repeated, slower now, like he needed me to really hear it, "that everything I did—back then, when we were kids, when we were teenagers—"

He stopped himself.

Shook his head slightly.

"—that I did it because I wanted to?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

He let out a breath, frustrated with himself.

"No," he muttered, almost to himself. "You know what—scratch that."

He looked at me again.

More direct this time.

"I didn't just want to," he corrected. "I needed to."

That made something in me snap back.

"I never asked you to," I cut in quickly.

There it was.

The argument.

The reflex.

Because I couldn't just sit there and take it.

"I know," he said immediately.

"Then why are you saying it like I did?" I shot back, my voice gaining strength again, even if my body still felt like it was falling apart. "Like I made you do all of that?"

"You didn't," he said.

"Then—"

"But I felt like I had to," he added.

I shook my head, pushing myself up slightly from the wall, my breathing still uneven. "That's not the same thing. I didn't oblige you to anything, Luke."

"It was never an obligation," he said, stepping closer again, his voice quieter but more intense. "That's what you don't get."

"Then what was it?" I demanded.

A pause.

A real one this time.

And when he answered—

It wasn't defensive.

It wasn't sarcastic.

It was... honest.

"It was a need," he said.

The word settled heavy between us.

"For me," he continued. "Not for you. For me."

I frowned, confused, trying to follow.

"I needed to make you happy," he said, his voice softer now, but steadier than anything he'd said before. "So I could breathe."

That—

That made my chest tighten again.

"So I could go home after a rough day," he went on, his eyes not leaving mine, "and lay down in bed knowing that you were okay."

I didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Because something about the way he said it—

It didn't sound like exaggeration.

It didn't sound like something said in the heat of the moment.

It sounded like something that had been there for a long time.

Something real.

"I didn't do it because you asked me to," he added quietly. "I did it because I couldn't not do it."

Silence fell again.

But this time—

It wasn't empty.

It was full.

Too full.

And suddenly—

Breathing wasn't getting easier.

Maddie's point of view — present day

"I didn't ask you to do it!"

The words came out louder than I expected—sharp, cutting through everything, even through my own unsteady breathing.

Luke didn't flinch.

If anything, something in his expression... softened.

"I know," he said.

And then, quieter—

"That's the worst part of it all, isn't it?"

That hit harder than I wanted it to.

Because there was no anger in it.

Just truth.

Raw, unfiltered truth.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face before letting it fall to his side.

"You know," he started again, voice rougher now, like something inside him had finally broken loose, "when I was out there—when your dad was talking about love—about how beautiful it is, how perfect it feels..."

He let out a dry, humorless laugh.

"That's not all true."

I didn't move.

Didn't interrupt.

Because something told me if I did, this would stop—and I didn't think I'd ever hear him like this again.

"That shit is painful," he continued. "It's not kind. It's not soft. It doesn't sit pretty like people pretend it does."

His eyes found mine again.

"And it never was for me."

My chest tightened.

"It hurt like hell," he said. "And it still does."

A pause.

"I think it always will."

The room felt too small.

Too full.

Like there wasn't enough oxygen for both of us.

"And it pisses me off," he went on, voice rising slightly, frustration bleeding through, "that people talk about it like it's this perfect thing. Because maybe—maybe they never had to watch the person they'd give everything for—everything—be with someone else."

My throat went dry.

"Maybe they never had to stand there," he said, "and act like it's fine. Like it doesn't destroy you a little every single time."

"Luke—" I tried.

He didn't stop.

"Maybe they never had to deal with the fact that no matter how much time passes, no matter how many times you tell yourself you're done, you still—"

He cut himself off, shaking his head, frustrated with his own words.

"You still see her everywhere," he said instead, quieter now. "In stupid things. In songs. In the sky. In the most random, meaningless shit."

My hands tightened around my arms.

"Like your heart just decides before your brain does," he added. "Like it already knows."

I swallowed hard.

"Luke..." I tried again, softer this time.

But he kept going.

Like if he stopped now, he'd never say it again.

"I spent years telling myself I had to move on," he said. "That I had to get over it. That I had to just—let it go."

He let out a small, broken laugh.

"But you know what I realized?"

I shook my head slightly.

He looked at me.

"Moving on and letting go aren't the same thing."

That—

That settled somewhere deep inside me.

Somewhere dangerous.

"I moved on," he continued. "I built a life. I dated people. I... tried."

A pause.

"But I never let you go."

The room went completely still.

And then—

He said it.

Clear.

Certain.

Like there was no point hiding it anymore.

"And I never will."

Something inside me cracked.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just—

Quietly.

Like something that had been holding for too long finally gave in.