Page 133 of Fangirl
Will nods slowly, then takes a long sip of his beer. He stands and crosses to the bay window, staring out even though there’s nothing but black outside.
“I’m pretty sure leaving broke hers too,” he says quietly. “You must realize that by now. Just… don’t wait ten years to figure it out. Don’t come back when it’s too late.”
I glance over at him, the vulnerability in his voice catching me off guard. “Did a woman break your heart?”
“Yes,” he says simply. “But I think I broke hers first.”
A weighty silence stretches between us.
That… that’s not like Will. No deflection, no sarcasm. That was something real. And for once, I don’t fill the silence. I just let it sit there, heavy.
I know the truth, though, and despite my broken heart, I’m not giving up on us.
I can’t.I love her too much for that. But for once, I’m not chasing.
I’m taking a step back. Listening, like she asked. I’ll figure out what I want and who I really am without twisting myself into the version I thought she needed.
Because that didn’t work, and it blew up in our faces.
So I’ll do the work… quietly.For me. And when I’m ready, when I know I’m the man she deserves, not pretending, not performing, I’ll show her.
And then… it’ll be her turn to decide if the love we had still fits the life she wants.
Because next time, there won’t be any turning back.
Next time, I’ll be playing for keeps.
CHAPTER 25
AMY
I’ve been a hypocrite.
The realization settled somewhere between LAX and my third breakdown over the Atlantic, curled up in the privacy of a first-class pod that felt far too roomy for how small and hollow I felt.
I kept telling myself I did the right thing, walking away before love became regret, but the truth is murkier than that. I told Jake he needed to figure out who he really was. That he couldn’t keep blending the role and the man. But maybe… I do that too.
Most of what I do is born out of fear—fear of the future, of the unknown, of being a burden. I don’t take risks, not really. Not until Jake. And even then, I jumped only because he made it feel safe. But the second things started to wobble, I ran. Again.
And now? I miss him so much it aches in places I didn’t know could hurt.
The day I got back, the pain flared. My joints locked. My body collapsed in on itself, a dying star. The GP gave me a two-week medical leave, and for once, I actually took it. I didn’t pretend I could push through. I didn’t throw myself back into routine.
Instead, I stayed home. I sulked. I cried. I slept and iced my feet, wrapped in the hoodie I stole from Jake.
But I also finishedBackstage Heart. My novel. The one about the chronically ill lawyer and the rock star lying low in her sleepy town. I wrote the last chapter between ice packs and painkillers, with a blanket over my legs and a fresh wave of determination in my chest.
Maybe Jake needs to figure out who he is, but so do I. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll both find our way back… whole.
That’s why I’m standing in front of my manager’s office now, on my first day back at work, palms sweaty and heart pounding. An envelope is clutched in one shaking hand.
“Penis,” I whisper under my breath for courage, raising my knuckles to knock.
Mr. Peters looks up from behind his desk, beaming. “Amy! You’re back. Thank God. We missed you.”
“I, yes.” I step in, my nerves fluttering. For a moment, I falter, the envelope trembling in my grip.
This is ridiculous. Amelia Sinclair, don’t do it. Just go back to your desk, answer some emails, and pretend this was a fever dream.
