"Layla, don't go!"
Oliver lunged at me recklessly, his hands gripping the wheelchair armrests for dear life.
His tears fell, splashing onto the back of my hand.
He choked out, "I was wrong, I really was wrong. You can hit me or scream at me, but please don't give up on me!"
People in the corridor cast sidelong glances.
He dropped to one knee, blocking my wheelchair.
I looked at him, feeling not so much as a ripple in my heart.
I said, my voice soft yet ice‑cold, "Oliver, let go."
He held on stubbornly, his knuckles turning white, and said, "I won't! If I let go, you'll really be gone!"
He continued, "I changed that star's name back, and I'm not running the camp anymore. Your leg—let me spend the rest of my life making it up to you, please?"
I replied, "You can't make it up."
I p
