Those words broke something in me.
I covered my face with my hands, and then I shattered.
Not the pretty crying.
Not the small, polite tears I let myself release once a year in the shower.
This was the kind of crying that didn’t ask permission.
The kind that hurt.
The kind that made your ribs ache and your throat raw.
I folded forward, and Drake caught me instantly—guiding my forehead to his shoulder like instinct, like he already knew how I fit.
“No one should carry pain like this alone,” he murmured.
And I cried harder.
I cried for the seven years I gave Marcus.
For every moment I was good, patient, loyal, hopeful.
For every Christmas we planned together.
For every promise he broke but smiled through.
For the girl I was an hour ago—the girl who believed love meant giving un
