Page 85 of High Hopes

My chest tightens in the best way, and I bite my lip, trying to keep my smile in check. He’s not asking because he feels obligated. He’s asking because he cares. Because he’s Liam.

But caring doesn’t mean he should have to carry me.

Birdie

yeah, actually. we need to talk about something

My fingers hover over the screen, my heart beating a little faster. I want to tell him how important he’s become to me, how supportive he’s been, how lovely it feels to have him in my corner. But the thought is terrifying. Saying that out loud risks everything—our connection, the comfort he brings, the fragile bond we’ve built.

Because what if I can’t be what he deserves? I’m not steady. I’m not whole. He deserves someone who can meet him where he is, not someone stuck trying to claw their way out of their own mess.

Liam

okay

really fucking hate that sentence btw

Birdie

it’s nothing bad. see you tonight x

I stare at the screen, my thoughts swirling. I need to tell him how much he means to me. But I also need to be honest—with him and myself. If I can’t give him what he deserves, I have to draw a line. I have to let him go before I drag him down with me.

Still, I hope he’ll understand. I hope he’ll stay, even if I can’t offer him the romantic version of us. Because losing him completely? That would break me in a way I don’t think I could recover from.

30

LIAM

I climbthe stairs to Birdie’s apartment, my hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets to keep from fidgeting, silently repeating a mantra in my head.

You’re not nervous. She just wants to talk. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

But my body isn’t buying it. My stomach twists itself into knots, and my pulse hammers like I’m halfway through a penalty sprint. Because let’s be real—no one ever says “we need to talk” when it’s something good. Those words have a track record, and it’s not a great one.

By the time I knock on her door, I’ve worked myself into a quiet panic. What if this is it? What if she’s decided she doesn’t want me around anymore? What if—

The door swings open, cutting off my frantic thoughts. Birdie stands there in a striped sweater, her cropped bob tied back on both sides with ribbon. She looks soft and tired and completely beautiful, and my chest does that weird, unsteady flutter it always does when I see her.

“Hey,” she says quietly, stepping aside to let me in. The faint scent of clay and lavender drifts toward me, so unmistakably Birdie that it sends my thoughts reeling.

“Hi, Birdie.”

She closes the door behind me, her movements careful, almost hesitant, and gestures toward the couch. “Sit?”

I do as she says, and she settles beside me, close enough for her warmth to brush against me but not close enough for our shoulders to touch. The space between us feels charged, like it’s holding the weight of everything left unsaid.

I clear my throat. “You wanted to talk?”

She pulls her legs onto the couch and tucks them beneath her. “Liam,” she starts, and my stomach sinks. “I just want to say, first of all, how much I appreciate you. You’ve been so . . . good to me. Better than I probably deserve.”

“Look, if this—”

“Let me finish,” she says, cutting me off with a small, shaky smile. “You’ve been this incredible, steady presence in my life, even when I tried so hard to distance myself. And I really want to keep . . . hanging out with you. I do. But I don’t know if I can be what you deserve. I don’t know if I can be a good girlfriend to you, if that’s what you’re looking for. Honestly, I’d probably be a really bad one.”

She laughs a little, but it’s strained, like she’s trying to make light of something that’s anything but. “What I’m asking is . . . would you stick around? Even if there was nothing romantic going on between us?”

It feels like I’ve been gutted. She’s scared—I can see it in the way her fingers twist in her lap, the way her shoulders hunch like she’s bracing for impact. But if she thinks she’s doing this for my benefit, then she’s not only scared—she’s just plain wrong.

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