Heartbreak, I discovered, wasn't a sudden explosion. It was a slow, cold leak. The vibrant colors Carla had brought into my life didn't just vanish; they seeped out, leaving a drained, gray world in their wake. The "why" of her rejection echoed in the silence, unanswered.
At first, it was just sadness. A deep, aching hollow that made even getting out of bed a chore. Then came the confusion, twisting itself into angry, ugly questions. Had she just been playing with me? Was I just a distraction, a item on her "Living List"—'Break a Heart'?
The anger was easier. Anger was a shield. I wrapped myself in it. I stopped looking for her in crowds. I took different routes to class. The library became a warzone of memories I actively avoided.
Weeks bled into a monotonous gray. I was back to being "Weeds," surviving in the cracks.
And then, she found me.
I had forced myself to go to the library to study, choosing a sterile, public table in the reference section. A shadow fell over my textbook. I knew who it was before I looked up.
Carla stood there, looking more fragile than ever, her hands holding a letter and her living list nervously .
"Not reading pickup lines anymore?" she asked, her voice a hesitant attempt at our old joke.
The sound of her voice sent a painful jolt through me, but the anger was quicker. It rose, hot and bitter, smothering the flicker of concern.
My heart ached, a physical pain in my chest, but my pride was a fortress. I stood up, closing my book with a sharp snap. "I have to go."
"Jin, wait—" she pleaded, her composure cracking. She reached out and grabbed my forearm, her grip surprisingly strong. "Please, just talk to me."
Her touch felt like a brand. I looked from her hand to her face, to the tears welling in her beautiful, traitorous eyes.
"There's nothing to talk about," I said, my voice cold and flat, a stranger's voice. I pulled my arm away, forcefully breaking her hold. "Just leave me alone."
I didn't look back. I walked away, my steps echoing in the quiet library. As I pushed through the heavy doors and out into the hallway, I heard it—a single, shattered sob from behind me .
And for one terrible, shameful moment, a bitter, ugly satisfaction washed over me. Good, a voice inside me whispered. Now you know how it feels.
The next day, her seat in literature class was empty. And the day after. And the day after that.
She was gone. And I had been the one to finally push her away.