Page 93 of The Beautiful Collision
Maya deserves better than my shame. She deserves the truth, all of it, even if she chooses to walk away afterward. She deserves to know that it was real for me too, that every moment after that first night was genuine, that the bet became meaningless the second she smiled at me over morning coffee.
But first, I’ve got other things to check off my to-do list of making amends.
thirty-four
MAYA
The apartment is suffocatingly quiet.
It’s the kind of silence that presses against my eardrums, making me hyper-aware of every small sound, like the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock on the wall, various other bumps and creaks. But all those sounds feel muffled, distant, like I’m underwater and the world above has continued on without me.
I pull the jersey tighter around myself, and the material against my skin sends an unwelcome jolt of recognition through me. It’s not just any jersey. It’shisjersey. The one with HAMILTON printed across the back that feels like a brand against my spine, marking me as the fool who fell for the performance.
God, when did I even put this on?
I should take it off. Burn it. Throw it in the trash with all the other lies.
But I don’t.
Instead, I burrow deeper into it like the pathetic, heartbroken idiot I’ve become. Because this is what I’ve been reduced to—wearing my ex-roommate’s jersey because it stillcarries the ghost of his scent, while I sit in the apartment that his stuff is still in but he isn’t.
The apartment is pristine now. Every surface gleams. The refrigerator is organized with military precision, my almond milk on the top shelf, my meal-prepped containers lined up like soldiers. His beer is gone. His pizza boxes are gone. His presence has been surgically removed.
Except for the memories that refuse to be cleaned away.
The anger that sustained me for the first forty-eight hours has burned itself out, leaving behind this deep, isolating sadness that sits in my chest like a stone. The righteous fury was easier. It gave me purpose, direction, and something to do with my hands.
Now all I have is this endless loop of memories playing in my mind, each one examined and re-examined like evidence in a case I can’t solve, trying to figure out where the performance ended and the real began. The question torments me, because I don’t know what was real and what was the game.
Every tender moment is now suspect. Every laugh we shared, every quiet morning coffee, every shoulder leaned on, every time he looked at me like I was something precious—all of it is contaminated by that single phrase Rook shouted across the bar.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and for one pathetic, desperate second, I hope it’s him. But it’s Sophie, texting that she’s on her way up. I don’t have the energy to ask her not to come. I don’t have the energy for much of anything except this endless autopsy of a relationship that was apparently dead on arrival.
The knock is soft, almost hesitant, like the knock itself is respectful of my grief, treating me like something fragile that might shatter if handled too roughly.
“It’s open,” I call out, my voice rough from disuse.
I haven’t spoken to anyone in two days except to call in sick to my clinical placement. My supervisor’s disapprovalpractically radiated through the phone, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Because how am I supposed to take care of patients when I can barely get off this couch?
Sophie enters carrying a tea tray like some sort of emotional rescue mission—Earl Grey, from the smell of it—and the simple kindness of it makes my throat tight. Fuck knows I don’t deserve it after how I treated her at the club or when she’d tried to call me after I stormed out of O’Neil’s, but here she is anyway.
“Hey,” she says softly, setting the tray on the coffee table as her eyes take in the scene.
She doesn’t comment on the jersey at all, which is how I know it’sbadbad. Sophie would normally have thoughts about me wearing the enemy’s colors. Instead, she just pours the tea, adding the single sugar I like, and hands me the mug.
The warmth seeps into my cold fingers, and I realize I’ve been sitting here so long I’ve gone numb. Everything feels numb except for the constant ache in my chest, like something vital has been carved out and I’m slowly bleeding internally, but can’t be bothered doing anything to fix it.
Sophie settles beside me on the couch, close but not touching, giving me the option of contact. For a long moment, we just sit there, the silence between us more comfortable than the oppressive quiet I’ve been drowning in for days now, too proud and hurt and stubborn to ask anyone for help.
“I talked to Mike,” she begins, her voice gentle, testing the waters.
My reaction is immediate and visceral.
I raise my hand, a weak gesture that still manages to conveystop.
“Don’t.” My voice comes out as barely a whisper. “Sophie, please.”
She pauses, and I can feel her watching me, cataloging the damage. I must look like hell. I haven’t showered in two days.Haven’t eaten anything of substance, either. The irony that I’m a nursing student who can’t even take care of herself isn’t lost on me.
