I wake up to my phone vibrating like it's panicking before I am.
At first, I think it's a dream. Some leftover anxiety from travel, from Ryder, from reopening a door I'd kept locked for years. But when I reach for my phone and the screen lights up, the numbers don't make sense.
Thirty-seven notifications. Twelve missed calls. Three voicemails—from Lila.
My chest tightens.
I sit up in bed, heart already racing, and open the first message.
Lila: Don't open Twitter yet. Call me.
That's when I know.
I open Twitter anyway.
The headline hits me before my brain can catch up:
"Readers Think Amelia Hart's Bestseller Is Based on a Real Person — And They've Found Him."
My breath leaves my body in one sharp exhale.
I click.
The article is neat, polished, devastatingly confident. It talks about parallels—timelines, shared hometowns, overlapping details fans have been dissecting for weeks. It includes screenshots from my old interviews, passages from the book highlighted and annotated like evidence.
And then...
A photo.
A high school yearbook scan.
Ryder Gonzales.
The room tilts.
I scroll faster, my hands shaking now. They talk about him like a character, like a mystery to be solved. They mention his height, his eyes, his job now. They speculate about whether he knows.
Whether he inspired the book.
Whether he broke my heart.
"I never meant..." I whisper to the empty room.
My phone rings again. I answer without looking.
"Amelia," Lila says, voice tight. "Are you okay?"
"No," I say honestly. "I didn't know this was coming."
"I know," she says. "I know you didn't."
But intention feels useless now.
I hang up after promising to call back and sit there, staring at my phone. My thoughts spiral in overlapping fragments.
I changed names. I changed details. I wrote fiction.
But fiction didn't protect him.
My thumb hovers over Ryder's name.
Before I can think better of it, I text him.
Me: I just saw the article. I swear I didn't know. I'm so sorry.
The message sends. Delivers.
No response.
Minutes pass. Each one stretches thin.
Then my phone buzzes.
Ryder: Did you know this was coming?
The question slices through me.
Me: No. I would've warned you. I never wanted this.
Dots appear. Disappear.
Then his reply comes.
Ryder: Can we talk?
Relief floods me so fast it almost hurts.
Me: Yes. Anywhere.
We meet at a quiet park not far from my hotel. It's late afternoon, the sun too gentle for what's about to happen. Ryder is already there when I arrive, standing with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground.
He looks tired.
Not angry. Not dramatic.
Just… tired.
"Hey," I say softly.
He looks up. His eyes are unreadable.
"Hey."
We sit on a bench, leaving a careful distance between us.
"I didn't know," I say immediately. "About the article. I never would've—"
"I believe you," he interrupts.
The words should comfort me. They don't.
"But," he continues, voice steady, "that doesn't change the fact that it happened."
I nod. My throat feels tight. "I tried to keep you anonymous."
"I know," he says. "But people connected the dots anyway."
He exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. "Do you know what it's like to wake up and realize strangers are talking about you like you're a plot twist?"
Guilt crashes over me, heavy and suffocating.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper. "I thought fiction would be enough."
He looks at me then—really looks at me.
"You got to tell your story," he says quietly."I didn't get a choice."
The words land harder than anything else he could've said.
"I never wanted to hurt you," I say. "I wrote it because I didn't know how else to process it. I wasn't thinking about—"
"Me?" he finishes, not unkindly. "Yeah. I can tell."
I flinch.
"That's not fair," I say, tears threatening now. "I thought about you all the time."
He nods once. "I know you did. But thinking about someone isn't the same as protecting them."
Silence stretches between us, thick and painful.
"I was ready," Ryder says after a moment. "When I saw you again… I was ready to talk. To see where things could go."
My heart stutters.
"But now," he continues, voice tightening just slightly, "I don't know how to trust that I'm not just another chapter."
"That's not what you are," I say desperately. "You're—"
"Real," he says. "Which is why this hurts."
He stands.
I stand too, panic blooming. "Please don't shut me out."
"I'm not punishing you," he says gently. "I just need space."
"How much space?" I ask, my voice breaking.
His expression softens—but he doesn't step closer.
"I don't know," he says. "Enough to feel like myself again."
He hesitates, then adds, "Please don't reach out."
The words hollow me out.
He walks away.
I stand there long after he's gone, the sun dipping lower, the park emptying around me.
When I finally check my phone, my message thread with Ryder is silent.
I try calling.
Straight to voicemail.
I send one more text—short, careful.
Me: I understand. I'm here if you ever want to talk.
The message doesn't deliver.
Blocked.
Later that night, I open social media again. The article has spread. Comments multiply. Opinions harden.
But all I can focus on is the silence.
The one place words can't reach.
For the first time, the space between the lines isn't romantic.
It's a wall.
And I built it.