Page 163 of Broken Pieces
All I’m doing is trying to hold on long enough to pretend this story isn’t already over.
I sit on the edge of the motel bed, jeans still sticking to skin that hasn’t stopped throbbing since noon.
I should go home. I can’t keep her waiting forever.
By the time the sun dips low enough to set the sky on fire, I’ve made up my mind. I have to go.
I stop at the shitty Chinese joint on the corner. Grease-stained windows, neon buzzing above the door like it’s trying to warn me off.
I order noodles—her favorite—plus extra spring rolls and fried rice, because she always steals mine even when she says she’s not hungry.
The woman behind the counter doesn’t meet my eyes. Only swipes the crumpled bills from my hand and slides the plastic bag across the counter.
When I reach the workshop, climb the steps to the apartment, and reach the landing, something tightens low in my gut.
It’s that deeper kind of knowing, the one that creeps in before the truth lands. Before it rips the ground out from under you.
I press my hand to the door and push it open.
She’s there.
Skylar, by the bed, frozen mid-movement, hair tangled, face wet with tears she probably tried to wipe away before I got here. But they’re still there, shining on her cheeks in the low light. Her mouth’s pressed tight.
A half-packed duffel sits on the bed, zipper gaping, shirts and jeans spilling out in a mess that looks too final.
It hits me harder than any punch I’ve ever taken.
My throat closes, heart pounding against bruised ribs, because this isn’t a fight I can win.
This is her walking away. And I see it for what it is—I fucking did this.
She doesn’t look at me as she keeps folding. Her hands tremble around the fabric, fingers clenched too tight as she shoves another shirt into the bag.
I drop the takeout on the table and take a step toward her.
“Don’t,” she says. Voice thin. Shaking. Cracked straight through the middle. “Don’t say a fucking word.”
But silence has never been something I’m good at.
Not when the girl I love is standing in front of me packing her fucking life into a duffel bag.
My chest is thudding hard, ribs screaming every time I breathe. “What are you doing?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just grabs another shirt, folds it fast as if she needs the motion to hold herself together.
I watch her hands.
The way they twitch.
The way her breath catches in her throat.
And I understand that if she walks out that door, I’ll tear apart every fucked-up thing I’ve built to bring her back.
“Skylar. Answer me,” I say, stepping closer. “What the fuck are you doing?”
She whirls around, eyes blazing, face streaked with fresh tears.
