I’m standing in Jamie’s room at Sam’s place, my voice still ringing from yelling at him. The air’s thick, heavy with my anger, his fear, and something breaking between us. I came here hot—Riley’s words burning in my head, that text about him framing her, the town’s whispers piling up. He’s on his feet, backed against the bed, his face pale, eyes wide like I’m a stranger. I’ve been shouting—about the money, the lies, Riley’s tears—and he’s just taking it, shaking, trying to talk. “Alex, no—Riley’s lying,” he keeps saying, but I’m too far gone, too mad, too lost in the mess she’s spun.
My hands are fists, trembling at my sides, and my chest hurts—tight, like it’s caving in. He’s looking at me—pleading, the kid I pulled from nothing—and I hate it, hate how it pulls at me. The security log I found—proof he wasn’t here that night Riley said—flashes in my mind, but it’s drowned out by her voice, soft and scared, pushing me here. “He’s dangerous,” she said, “trying to frame me,” and it’s mixing with the theft, his name on that receipt, the pen—everything I’ve been choking on. I want clarity—truth—but all I’ve got is noise, and it’s spilling out, raw and mean.
“Stop it,” I snap, cutting him off again as he stumbles over his words. “Just stop—quit lying to me!” My voice is loud, bouncing off the walls, and he flinches, small, like I’ve already hit him. His room’s a wreck—torn sketches, flipped desk, Riley’s warning still pinned there—and it’s feeding my anger, making it real. “You’ve been playing me—stealing, twisting stuff, and now framing her? I’m done, Jamie—I can’t keep doing this!”
He shakes his head, fast, his hands up like he’s blocking me. “No—Alex, please, you know me—” His voice cracks, wet, and it’s breaking something in me, but I push it down, Riley’s accusations louder. “I don’t know you!” I yell, stepping closer, my boots heavy on the floor. “Not anymore—not after all this!” He’s so close—shaking, eyes red—and I feel it slipping, all the frustration, the doubt, the hurt I’ve been carrying since this started. It’s too much—Morgan’s threats, the store, him—and I can’t hold it back.
“Maybe I should’ve never trusted you,” I say, low, cruel, the words slipping out before I can stop them. They’re sharp, cutting, and I see them hit—his face crumples, his breath catching like I’ve punched him in the gut. My heart twists, hard, but I’m stuck, my anger burning too hot to pull it back. “All this time—taking you in, giving you a home—and you turn around and do this? Maybe I was wrong about you from the start.”
He freezes, his hands dropping, his eyes locked on mine—wide, wet, shattering right in front of me. It’s quiet—too quiet—except for his shaky breathing, and I realize what I’ve done. Those words—they’re not just mad, they’re a knife, slicing through us, through three years of him upstairs, sketching, laughing, being mine. His shoulders slump, his face going blank, like something’s dying inside him, and I feel sick—guilt, regret—but my mouth won’t move, won’t take it back.
“Jamie—” I start, soft, my voice breaking, but he shakes his head, slow, cutting me off. His eyes—those eyes I’ve known forever—are empty now, hollow, and it’s killing me. He steps back, shaky, bumping the bed, and I see it—tears spilling, silent, down his cheeks. My chest hurts—aches—like I’m losing him, really losing him, and I did it. Riley’s voice—soft, scared—fades, and the log, his pleas, his fight—they’re loud now, screaming I’ve messed up. But it’s too late—the words are out, hanging heavy, and he’s breaking because of me.
He turns, slow, his hands trembling, and grabs his jacket from the floor—ripped, dirty, but he clutches it like it’s all he’s got. “You don’t mean that,” he whispers, so quiet I barely hear, but it’s there—cracked, raw, hoping I’ll stop him. I want to—my hands twitch, my throat tight—but I’m frozen, stuck in the mess I’ve made. Riley’s lies, the theft, the doubt—they’re choking me, and I can’t find the words to fix this, to pull him back.
He steps toward the door, his boots dragging, and I see his shoulders shake—small, like he’s holding in a sob. My heart’s pounding—fast, loud—and I want to grab him, say I’m sorry, say I was wrong, but my feet won’t move. He’s slipping—out of my reach, out of my life—and it’s my fault, my words cutting the last thread. The room’s cold, empty, his sketches of me torn on the floor, and I’m losing him, watching him go because I let her twist me.
He stops at the door, his back to me, his hand on the frame. “I won’t make that mistake again,” he whispers, so soft it’s almost gone, but it hits me—hard, final, like a door slamming shut. He’s talking about me—trusting me, needing me—and now he’s done, walking away. He flinches—one last time, small, like my words are still hitting him—and steps out, his shadow fading down the hall.
I stand there, alone, my breath short, my hands empty, the silence loud and crushing.