That's the thought that guts me, standing there in the streetlight while he dismantles it in that flat cold voice. Two days ago his hands shook holding my face, and now he's calling it a mistake, packing it away, telling me to forget it, and the whiplash of it takes the air out of me, because I know, I know it's a performance, I know from the way his jaw is clenched and his hands are fists at his sides and he can't quite hold my eyes, but knowing it's a performance doesn't stop it hurting. It hurts exactly as much as if he meant it. That's the cruel thing about someone pushing you away for your own good. They use the truest thing between you as the weapon, and it cuts just as deep whether or not they want it to.
"You don't get to do that," I say, and my voice shakes and I let it. "You don
