Chapter 88
Lucas's POV
Alex and Josh exchanged another one of those loaded looks. Finally, Josh said carefully, "Okay. But... if you need to talk about anything else. Relationship stuff, or whatever. We're here, you know?"
"I know. Thanks."
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I didn't need to look to know who it was.
"That her?" Alex asked.
"Probably."
"You gonna answer it?"
I should. I should. It was what boyfriends did—they answered their girlfriends' texts, especially on mornings when they'd slept at the dorm instead of with her for the fifth night in a row.
But I couldn't make myself reach for the phone.
"Later," I said. "I need to shower first."
"Right." Alex didn't sound convinced, but he let it drop. "Well, Josh and I are heading to the dining hall for breakfast. You coming?"
"In a bit. I want to..." I trailed off, eyes drawn back to the window. To Ellie's bright laughter and the easy way she moved through the snow. To the life she was building without me in it.
"Want to keep creepily watching people out the window?" Josh supplied helpfully.
"Observation," I corrected. "It's called observation."
"It's called stalking. But you do you, man."
They left, their bickering fading as they headed down the hallway. I stood there alone, forehead pressed against the cold glass, watching Ellie's joy like it was something precious I'd thrown away and was only now realizing the value of.
My phone buzzed again. Then again. Three times in rapid succession.
Finally, I picked it up.
Samantha: "Babe, why didn't you stay over last night?"
Samantha: "I made breakfast but you weren't here"
Samantha: "Can you come over today? I miss you"
The messages made my chest feel even tighter. Each heart emoji, each casual endearment, each assumption that I'd just drop everything and come running—it all pressed down on me like physical weight.
Then tell her, Conall said. Tell her the truth. That we can't breathe around her. That we're dying slowly, piece by piece.
But I couldn't. Because what kind of person would that make me? To tell my girlfriend that her love was suffocating me? That her devotion felt like chains? That every time she looked at me with those adoring eyes, I felt myself shrinking, becoming smaller and smaller until I wasn't sure there was anything left of who I actually was?
I typed and deleted three different responses before finally settling on: "Sorry, rough night. Needed to crash here. How about I come over tonight?"
The response was immediate: "YES! I'll make your favorite dinner"
My favorite dinner. Lasagna, because I'd ordered it once on our first real date and she'd decided that meant I loved it. Never mind that I actually couldn't stand lasagna, that I'd only ordered it because it was expensive and I was trying to impress her. Never mind that my actual favorite was Mom's pot roast, or Dad's burgers, or the weird fusion tacos Ellie and I used to make when we were teenagers, throwing random ingredients together and seeing what stuck.
But Samantha didn't know any of that. And I'd never bothered to tell her.
Because you're a coward, Conall observed. Because it's easier to pretend. To be whatever she wants rather than who we actually are.
Another buzz: "What time? I want to make sure everything's perfect"
I stared at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Down in the quad, Ellie had thrown her head back in laughter at something Megan said. Snow was falling again—gentle flakes drifting down to catch in her hair like stars.
She looked like she belonged in a painting. Something beautiful and untouchable and completely out of reach.
"Around 7?" I typed back, even though every instinct was screaming at me to make an excuse. To stay here. To not walk back into that apartment that felt more like a cage every time I visited.
"Perfect! Can't wait"
Then: "Oh! And bring your basketball jersey? I want to wear it"
The request made something twist uncomfortably in my gut. Samantha was always doing that—wearing my clothes, marking herself with my scent, erasing the boundaries between us until I couldn't tell where I ended and she began.
Ellie had never done that. She'd always maintained her own space, her own style, her own carefully guarded autonomy. I'd thought it meant she didn't care enough, that she was holding back, keeping me at arm's length.
Now I wondered if maybe she'd just understood something I was only beginning to grasp: that love shouldn't mean losing yourself. That caring for someone didn't require becoming them.
My phone buzzed again, but I didn't look at it. Instead, I watched Ellie help Jackson add the finishing touches to their snowman—a lopsided creation with stone eyes and a stick smile that was somehow perfect despite its flaws.
They stepped back to admire their work, and even from here I could see the satisfaction on Ellie's face. The simple pleasure of creating something with friends. Of being part of something bigger than herself without having to sacrifice who she was to fit into it.
That could have been us, Conall mourned. Should have been us.
But it wasn't. Because I'd made my choice. I'd chosen Samantha and her suffocating devotion, her need to mold me into whatever image she had in her head of the perfect boyfriend. I'd chosen the easy lie over the difficult truth.
And Ellie... Ellie had chosen herself.
I pulled out my phone and, before I could second-guess the impulse, opened the camera app. Zoomed in. Captured the moment—Ellie with snow in her hair, smiling at their ridiculous snowman, surrounded by people who accepted her exactly as she was.
The photo was slightly blurry, the angle awkward, but it didn't matter. I saved it anyway, tucking it away like a secret. Like proof that she was happy. That she'd survived my betrayal and built something better on the other side of it.
We lost her, Conall whispered. Forever.
"Yeah," I said out loud to the empty room. "We did."