The silence after losing them both feels different than I expected.
I lie in my dorm bed staring at the ceiling while Gemma pretends to sleep across the room—her breathing too deliberate, her stillness too conscious—and the emptiness in my chest isn't devastation. It's something stranger. Something that almost resembles relief, which makes me wonder what kind of person feels relieved after destroying two relationships in the span of three hours.
The kind of person I've apparently always been, just without the clarity to see it.
I pull up Zachary's message again, the screen casting blue light across my face in the darkness. The words haven't changed since I read them the first time, or the fifth, but I keep returning to them like pressing a bruise to confirm it still hurts.
I'm giving you space. Not because I've stopped wanting you. Because wanting you while watching you choose someone else is destroying something I need to survive.
He gave me exactly what I've been demanding. Space. Freedom. The absence of his wanting, pressing against my decisions, like a weight I never asked to carry.
The irony tastes bitter enough to choke on.
I wanted freedom from his proximity, from the way he looked at me like I was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life. I wanted him out of my orbit because his presence made choices feel impossible—every step toward Marvin a betrayal, every step away from Zachary a loss I couldn't calculate.
Now I have it. The freedom I demanded, delivered with the particular finality of someone who's finally stopped fighting.
And the freedom feels less like victory and more like the specific loneliness of getting what you asked for and discovering it was never what you actually wanted.
Marvin's absence registers differently in my chest—sharper but shallower, like a cut that stings without reaching anything vital. I liked him. Wanted him. Enjoyed the simplicity of being chosen by someone uncomplicated, someone golden and visible and entirely present in ways Zachary never could be.
But I never loved him the way he deserved.
The realization should hurt more than it does. Should feel like failure instead of the quiet confirmation of something I've suspected since the formal, since I stood in that bathroom convincing myself that saying yes was the same as meaning it.
Watching him walk away with his dignity intact feels like the kindest ending I could have offered. He deserved someone who chose him completely, not someone who gave him the parts left over after another man took his share.
At least I gave him that much: an honest ending instead of a prolonged lie.
Sleep doesn't come, and I stop pretending to chase it around four a.m. The morning arrives gray and indifferent, and I force myself through the motions—shower, clothes, breakfast I eat without tasting because the alternative is Gemma's worried expression sharpening into intervention.
"You don't have to go to class," she says, watching me shove toast into my mouth like it's an assignment I'm determined to complete.
"Yes I do." The words come out steadier than I feel. "If I stay in bed, I'll think. Thinking is not my friend right now."
She doesn't argue. Just nods and grabs her bag, falling into step beside me as we walk to our morning lecture like this is any other Tuesday.
The day unfolds in a blur of professors and notes and the sustained performance of someone who's functioning. I answer questions when called on. I take notes I probably won't read. I avoid eye contact with anyone who might have seen the sorority chat, which is everyone, which means I spend seven hours staring at my laptop screen like it contains the secrets of the universe.
Gemma stays close without pushing—the particular loyalty of someone who's decided presence matters more than words. She doesn't ask what happened with Marvin. Doesn't mention Zachary or the bookstore or any of the wreckage I've left scattered across the past twenty-four hours. Just exists beside me, solid and uncomplicated, a reminder that some people know how to show up without demanding explanations.
By evening, I've made one decision.
"I need to call Adison," I tell Gemma, curled in my desk chair with my phone in my hands. "Not for advice. I think I'm beyond advice at this point."
"Then why?"
The question deserves an answer I'm not sure I can articulate. I try anyway, because Gemma's earned honesty even when honesty requires effort.
"Because she's the only person who's watched me break and rebuild. Multiple times. And I need—" I pause, searching for words that fit. "I need someone who knows what I look like at my worst and doesn't flinch. Someone who won't try to fix me or comfort me or tell me everything happens for a reason."
"What do you need her to do?"
"Just listen." The truth of it settles into my chest like something solid. "I need to say things out loud to someone who won't judge me for them. And Adison's the only person I trust to do that."
Gemma nods slowly, and I see understanding cross her face—the recognition that some conversations require specific witnesses, that the shape of honesty changes depending on who's receiving it.
"Call her," she says. "I'll grab dinner for both of us."
She leaves me alone with my phone and the particular weight of everything I need to say to the woman who's become more sister than friend over the past year.
I pull up Adison's contact and stare at her name for a long moment, remembering everything we've survived together—the scandals, the family drama, the impossible men who kept pulling us in directions we didn't choose.
She answered when I showed up at her penthouse with a backpack and nowhere else to go.
She'll answer now.
I hit the call and wait for her voice, knowing that whatever comes next, at least I won't have to carry it alone.