It fractures.
Because underneath it is the sickening realization that she’s not wrong.
I do want her.
I wanted her when Owens smiled at her like she was worth noticing. Wanted her when she laughed—really laughed—like she hadn’t done it in weeks. Wanted her when I stood there, unnecessary and uninvited, refusing to leave the room because the thought of someone else stepping into my place felt unbearable.
And instead of claiming what I wanted, I punished her for it. I used cruel words to get under her skin to make her feel as bad as I did.
My jaw tenses as shame mixes with frustration, the pressure in my chest climbing until it feels like it might crack my ribs open. I tell myself to let it go. To walk away. To do what I always do—retreat, lock it down, regain control.
Then I see her through the glass at the end of the hall.
Head down. Bag slung over her shoulder. Moving fast, like if she doesn’t leave now, she’ll say what she can’t take back.
She turns toward the stairwell, and the last of my control snaps. I don’t think. I don’t weigh consequences. I don’t plan.
I move. Then I follow her.
The stairwell smells faintly of concrete and disinfectant, the echo of my footsteps too loud in the quiet. She’s already halfway down the landing when she hears me.
“Melissa,” I call.
She stops, but she doesn’t turn around. “Don’t,” she says softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say something you’ll regret.”
I step closer, not touching her, but giving her the choice to move away.
“I already regret enough,” I say.
She turns then, eyes bright but steady. Guarded. Brave in a way that undoes me.
“You don’t get to want me only when someone else notices,” she says. “And you don’t get to punish me for it.”
“I wasn’t punishing you.”
Her laugh is quiet. Hurt. “You disappeared.”
I exhale. “Because I don’t know how to do this.”
“Then stop pretending you don’t want it.”
The words hit square in my chest.
“I can’t promise you anything,” I say. The truth comes out rough, unpolished. “I don’t do relationships. I don’t know how to be … careful.”
She studies me for a long moment.
“Good,” she says.
I blink. “Good?”
“I don’t want promises,” she replies. “I don’t want future talk or guarantees. I’ve had those. I know how fragile they are.”
Her voice softens. “I just want you to want me. Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s convenient, but honestly.”