Wright:
The door closes behind her.
Not slams.
Not bangs.
Just… closes.
Soft. Final.
Like something dying quietly.
And everything inside me goes still.
Too still.
I stand there behind my desk, fingers pressed against the edge so hard the wood bites into my palms, listening to the echo of her footsteps disappear down the hall.
She called me a liar.
She was right.
I swallow hard, but it doesn’t go down. Nothing does. My throat is tight. My chest feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire, tightening every time I replay her voice—hurt, angry, shaking.
Either you want me or you don’t.
God.
God.
Of all the things she’s said to me since the moment I met her, that one is going to haunt me.
Because the answer is simple.
So painfully, obviously simple.
I want her.
I want her in ways
