The familiar creak of my childhood bedroom door felt like a lifeline as I stumbled into the sanctuary of my past. My mother's rose-patterned wallpaper, unchanged since I was twelve, blurred through my tears as I collapsed onto the twin bed that had witnessed countless teenage heartbreaks. None of them had prepared me for this.

Mom found me there three hours later, still clutching that damned fake Hermès bag like some twisted security blanket. She didn't ask questions, didn't demand explanations. She simply sat on the edge of my bed and smoothed my hair the way she had when I was little and afraid of thunderstorms.

"I'm so stupid," I whispered into my pillow, my voice raw from crying. "Seven years, Mom. Seven years of my life wasted on someone who never even saw me."

"You're not stupid, sweetheart." Her voice carried that gentle firmness I remembered from childhood scraped knees and broken friendships. "You loved with your whole heart. That's never stupid."

I turned to face her, my eyes swollen and burning. "I gave up everything for him. The study abroad program, my dreams, even myself. I became this... this shadow of who I used to be, all because I thought that's what love was supposed to look like."

Mom's hand stilled in my hair. "The study abroad program? The one in Paris?"

I nodded miserably. "The acceptance letter is still in my desk drawer. I was supposed to leave last month, but I turned it down because Lincoln said long distance never works. He said if I really loved him, I'd stay."

Something shifted in my mother's expression—a spark of the fierce protectiveness I'd inherited but had forgotten how to use. "Leanna, honey, what if I told you it might not be too late?"

My heart stuttered. "What do you mean?"

"Your father has connections at the university. The program coordinator owes him a favor from years ago." She cupped my face gently, her thumb brushing away fresh tears. "If you want this—if you really want to go—we can make some calls."

The possibility hung in the air like a lifeline thrown to a drowning person. Paris. Art. A chance to remember who I used to be before I lost myself in Lincoln's indifference.

"But what about—"

"What about what? A boy who treats you like you're disposable?" Mom's voice carried an edge I rarely heard. "Sweetheart, you've spent so long trying to be what someone else wanted that you've forgotten what you want. Maybe it's time to remember."

That evening, as I sat in the garden behind our house watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of hope, I heard footsteps on the gravel path. I didn't need to look to know who it was—Kendrick had always had this way of appearing when I needed him most, like some guardian angel disguised as the boy next door.

"Hey," he said softly, settling beside me on the old wooden bench without waiting for an invitation. "Your mom called. Said you might need a friend."

I laughed, but it came out broken and bitter. "A friend. Yeah, I could use one of those. Turns out I've been pretty terrible at choosing them lately."

Kendrick was quiet for a long moment, his presence steady and warm beside me. He'd always been like this—patient, undemanding, content to simply exist in the same space without needing to fill every silence with words.

"You want to talk about it?" he asked finally.

So I told him. Everything. The profile picture, the identical bags, Lincoln's cruel performance in front of our dormmates. Kendrick listened without interruption, his jaw tightening with each detail, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap.

"I'm sorry," he said when I finished, and the simple sincerity in his voice nearly undid me all over again. "You deserved so much better than that."

"Did I, though?" The question escaped before I could stop it. "Maybe this is what I get for being so pathetic, so desperate to be loved that I accepted scraps and called them a feast."

"Don't." Kendrick's voice was sharper than I'd ever heard it. "Don't you dare blame yourself for someone else's cruelty. You loved him honestly. That he couldn't see the gift he was given says everything about him and nothing about you."

I looked at him then, really looked, and saw something in his eyes that made my breath catch. Pain. Not just sympathy for my situation, but deep, personal pain, as if my heartbreak was somehow his own.

"Mom thinks I should reconsider the study abroad program," I said quietly. "Paris. Art school. A chance to start over."

Kendrick's expression didn't change, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. "What do you think?"

"I think I'm terrified. And I think that might be exactly why I need to do it." I took a shaky breath. "The paperwork is complicated, though. Deadlines and applications and—"

"I can help with that," Kendrick said immediately. "If you want. I mean, if you decide to go through with it."

I turned to face him fully, studying his profile in the fading light. "Why? Why would you do that?"

He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Because you deserve to chase your dreams, Leanna. You always have."

The Garden Café had always been our place. Lincoln and I had shared our first official date here three years ago, sitting at the corner table beneath the ivy-covered pergola where golden afternoon light filtered through the leaves like scattered coins. I'd chosen this spot deliberately for what I hoped would be our final conversation—somewhere that held enough good memories to maybe, just maybe, soften whatever harsh words needed to be said.

I arrived fifteen minutes early, my hands trembling as I smoothed down my dress—the blue one Lincoln had once said brought out my eyes. Old habits. Even now, even after everything, I was still trying to please him.

The familiar weight of my phone buzzed against my palm. A text from Lincoln: "Running late. Someone will meet you there to explain everything."

My stomach clenched. Someone?

I didn't have to wait long for my answer.

Heaven glided through the café entrance like she owned the place, her hair perfectly styled in loose waves that caught the afternoon sun. She wore a cream-colored dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, paired with delicate gold jewelry that sparkled with each step. But it was her expression that made my blood turn cold—that same predatory satisfaction I'd seen in our dorm room, amplified now by the knowledge that she held all the cards.

"Leanna!" she called out with false brightness, her voice carrying across the quiet café as heads turned to watch her approach. "You look... well, you look exactly like I expected."

She slid into Lincoln's chair with practiced grace, crossing her legs and signaling the waitress with the confidence of someone who had never been denied anything she wanted.

"Where's Lincoln?" The words scraped against my throat like broken glass.

Heaven's smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth. "Oh, sweetie. He's busy. But don't worry—he sent me to deliver his message personally. He thought it would be... kinder this way."

The waitress appeared, and Heaven ordered a lavender latte with oat milk, extra foam. She knew the menu by heart. How many times had she been here with him while I was in class, believing we were solid?

"You see," Heaven continued, stirring her drink with deliberate slowness, "Lincoln and I had the most interesting conversation about you last night. He was feeling a bit guilty about the whole situation, can you imagine? Sweet boy, really, but sometimes too considerate for his own good."

My hands clenched in my lap, nails digging crescents into my palms. "Just tell me what he said."

"Well, since you're asking so nicely..." Heaven leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "He told me that he's always seen you as more of a... practical choice. You know, the kind of girl who'd make a good wife someday. Reliable. Predictable. Safe."

Each word hit like a physical blow, but I forced myself to remain still, to not give her the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.

"He said you were always so eager to please, so desperate for his approval, that it became... well, boring, frankly." Heaven's eyes sparkled with malicious delight. "Where's the challenge in someone who reshapes themselves to fit whatever mold you present? Where's the excitement?"

My vision blurred at the edges, but I blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. Not here. Not in front of her.

"But with me," Heaven continued, examining her manicured nails with studied nonchalance, "there's fire. Passion. I keep him guessing, keep him working for my attention. I don't rearrange my entire life around his schedule or cancel my dreams to play the perfect girlfriend."

The irony was suffocating. Everything I'd thought made me a good partner—my devotion, my willingness to compromise, my unconditional support—had apparently been the very things that drove him away.

"You should really thank me, you know," Heaven said, taking a delicate sip of her latte. "Think of our relationship as practice. All those years of learning how to be a girlfriend, how to anticipate someone's needs, how to make yourself... useful. Consider it training for whoever comes next. Though honestly, after Lincoln, most men will probably seem like a downgrade."

She stood then, smoothing down her dress with the same satisfied smile she'd worn while showing off her Hermès bag. "Oh, and Leanna? He wanted me to tell you that he hopes you'll understand. He's not trying to hurt you—he just finally found someone who matches his energy. Someone worthy of the effort."

I sat frozen in my chair long after Heaven's clicking heels faded into the distance, staring at the untouched tea growing cold in front of me. The ivy above swayed in the afternoon breeze, casting shifting shadows across the table where I'd once believed in forever.

Somewhere worthy of the effort.

The words echoed in my mind as I finally stood on unsteady legs, leaving money on the table for a drink I'd never touched, walking away from the last remnants of a love that had never really existed at all.