I don’t plan on talking to Amber again.
That’s what I tell myself as I walk across campus the next day, eyes fixed straight ahead, earbuds in without music playing. It’s easier to pretend I’m sealed off from the world when I can’t hear it.
But pretending has never actually worked for me.
“Zoey.”
I stop despite myself.
I hate that I stop.
I turn slowly and find Amber standing a few feet behind me, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, expression unreadable. No entourage today. No performance.
Just her.
“I said I didn’t want to talk,” I say flatly.
She nods. “I know. I’m not here to force you.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I owe you something,” she replies.
I laugh without humor. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she says calmly.
Students pass us, laughing, talking, living lives that feel impossibly distant from mine. I gesture vaguely toward the quad.
“Say it here,” I tell her. “Whatever it is.”
She hesitates. “Maybe not here.”
“Then don’t say it at all,” I snap.
Amber studies my face for a long moment. Then she sighs.
“Fine,” she says. “Here it is.”
She takes a breath.
“I was cruel to you,” she says plainly. “Not accidentally. Not because I was insecure. On purpose.”
The bluntness throws me.
“I know,” I reply.
“I wasn’t just mean,” she continues. “I was calculated. I spread things. I laughed when you cried. I enjoyed watching you fall apart.”
My jaw tightens. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I need you to hear that I know exactly what I did,” she says. “And I’m sorry.”
The word hangs between us.
Sorry.
I’ve heard it before. From people who wanted absolution, not accountability.
“You’re sorry now?” I ask. “After everything?”
“Yes,” she says. “Now.”
“And why now?” I challenge.
She looks away, jaw tightening. “Because I don’t feel good about it anymore.”
“That’s not an apology,” I say sharply. “That’s guilt management.”
She flinches. “Fair.”
I cross my arms, bracing myself. “Try again.”
Amber exhales slowly. “I was jealous of you.”
I laugh again, incredulous. “Of me?”
“Yes,” she says. “And before you say it—that doesn’t make sense, I know. But it’s true.”
I shake my head. “You had everything.”
“I had visibility,” she corrects. “That’s not the same thing.”
I open my mouth to argue, then stop.
“Explain,” I say reluctantly.
She hesitates, then meets my gaze.
“I liked Chase,” she admits. “More than I ever admitted out loud.”
My stomach twists.
“And he liked you,” she continues. “Even when he was with other people, even when things were messy—he always looked at you like you were home.”
I look away, my throat tight.
“I hated that,” Amber says quietly. “I hated that you didn’t even seem to try and still had that kind of gravity.”
“I didn’t try?” I snap.
“You didn’t perform,” she says. “You didn’t compete. You just… existed. And he chose you anyway.”
The words sting.
“So you punished me for it,” I say.
“Yes,” she replies without hesitation.
I swallow hard.
“I told myself you were weak,” Amber continues. “That you were boring. That you didn’t deserve him. That made it easier.”
“And now?” I ask.
“Now I see what it actually did to you,” she says. “And I hate myself for being part of it.”
I study her face, searching for sarcasm, manipulation, anything familiar.
There’s none.
“You don’t get forgiveness just because you’re self-aware,” I say.
“I know,” she replies. “I’m not asking for that.”
“Then what do you want?” I ask.
She shrugs slightly. “I want you to know that I don’t think you deserved any of it.”
I laugh bitterly. “That’s a low bar.”
“Still important,” she says.
I lean against the railing beside us, my legs suddenly unsteady.
“You made my life hell,” I say quietly. “You fed rumors. You watched people turn on me and did nothing.”
“I did worse than nothing,” she says. “I encouraged it.”
I nod slowly. “So why should I listen to you now?”
“Because I’m not here to compete with you anymore,” Amber says. “I’m tired.”
That catches my attention.
“Tired of what?” I ask.
“Of pretending I’m untouchable,” she replies. “Of acting like everything slides off me.”
She pauses, then adds, “You think popularity means safety. It doesn’t.”
I snort softly. “Cry me a river.”
“I’m not asking for sympathy,” she says. “I’m offering honesty.”
Silence stretches between us.
“I don’t forgive you,” I say finally.
She nods. “I didn’t expect you to.”
“But,” I continue slowly, “I’ll listen. That’s all I can give you right now.”
Her shoulders relax slightly. “That’s more than enough.”
I glance at her. “Don’t get comfortable.”
“I won’t,” she says.
We stand there awkwardly, the weight of the conversation settling in my chest.
“I don’t trust you,” I admit.
“That makes sense,” she replies. “I wouldn’t either.”
“So don’t expect me to be nice,” I add.
“I don’t,” she says again.
Something about her consistency—her lack of defensiveness—unsettles me more than anger would.
“Why chess club?” I ask suddenly. “Why talk to me there?”
She smiles faintly. “Because you look like yourself there. Or you used to.”
The comment hits deeper than I expect.
“I used to look like myself everywhere,” I mutter.
She doesn’t argue.
“I won’t pretend I understand what you’re going through,” Amber says. “But I do know what it’s like to be surrounded by people and still feel completely alone.”
I glance at her, surprised by the sincerity.
“Lonely looks different on everyone,” she adds.
We fall quiet again.
“I’m not going to be your friend,” I say.
“I didn’t ask you to be,” she replies.
“But if you’re lying,” I warn, “or if this is some kind of game—”
“I know,” she says. “I’ll deserve whatever you do.”
I study her face again, trying to reconcile this version of Amber with the girl who used to smile while tearing me apart.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” I admit.
“You don’t have to do anything,” she says. “Just… don’t shut it down because it doesn’t fit the story you have of me.”
I look away, my chest tight.
That’s exactly what I’ve been doing to everyone.
“Fine,” I say. “We’ll see.”
She nods once. “That’s all I’m asking.”
She turns to leave, then pauses.
“For what it’s worth,” she says over her shoulder, “you didn’t break because you were weak. You broke because you were carrying more than anyone saw.”
I scoff lightly. “You don’t know that.”
She meets my gaze one last time. “I do.”
Then she walks away.
I stand there long after she’s gone, my thoughts tangled and heavy.
I don’t forgive her.
I don’t trust her.
But for the first time in a long time, someone didn’t ask me to be smaller. Didn’t tell me to get over it. Didn’t minimize what happened.
She owned it.
And that complicates everything.
I exhale slowly, my breath shaking.
Maybe listening doesn’t mean surrender.
Maybe it just means I’m not completely closed off yet.
I don’t know if that’s strength or stupidity.
But right now, it’s all I have.