Tom's POV
I looked to my side, eyes landing on the teddy bear slumped in the corner of my room — the stupid, fluffy reminder of everything I was trying so fucking hard to forget.
"Mrs. Snuggles," I muttered under my breath, dragging a hand down my face. "What a dumb fucking name."
But even as I said it, the corner of my mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. Because I knew the name meant something. It came from her. From that day at her house when things felt… normal. When she wasn't Tyler's girl, when I wasn't the idiot caught in the middle of some twisted game.
I let out a long, frustrated sigh and pushed myself off the bed. I needed to stop thinking about her. About them. About everything.
My head was a fucking mess — memories of her laugh, her teasing, that goddamn sparkle in her eyes — all of it swirling together, making it impossible to think.
"Fuck" I muttered, grabbing a towel and heading to the bathroom.
The hot water hit my skin, burning and grounding all at once. I just stood there, letting it wash over me, trying to scrub away the anger, the jealousy, the guilt — everything. I wanted to forget the hallway, the hurt, the look in her eyes when she walked away with him.
I wanted to forget the whole fucking week.
Saturday mornings were supposed to feel calm, peaceful — a reset. But as I dragged myself out of bed around ten, everything still felt heavy. The same goddamn thoughts circling like vultures in my head.
I threw on a pair of grey sweatpants and a black hoodie, running a hand through my messy hair before trudging downstairs. The smell hit me before I even reached the kitchen — pancakes. Sweet, warm, and suspiciously not burned.
"I made pancakes!" Mom called out as I hit the last step, her voice too cheerful for the hour.
I raised a brow, eyeing the spotless kitchen. No smoke, no flour explosion, no mess. Yeah, bullshit.
"Yeah right, Mom. You went to IHOP, didn't you?" I asked, smirking.
She laughed, waving me off. "Won't you let me have this? It's the thought that counts, you know."
I chuckled, shaking my head. "Sure, sure. Thanks, Mom."
She handed me a plate stacked with pancakes — golden, perfect, not at all homemade. "You're welcome, sweetheart," she said with a grin.
I grabbed two and wolfed them down, my stomach growling like I hadn't eaten in days. The house was too quiet, too clean. Daniel was probably at work, thank fuck. I didn't have the patience for his fake-ass "father figure" act this morning.
"I'm heading over to the park," I said, grabbing my phone and slipping my hoodie's hood over my head.
Mom looked up from her coffee, smiling softly. "Alright, honey. Don't be out too late."
I nodded, but I was already halfway out the door, the crisp morning air hitting my face like a slap — cold and real. The park was just a few blocks away, a little close to school. Maybe a walk would clear my head. Maybe I could finally stop fucking thinking about her.
Yeah right, Tom.
I sprawled out on the grass, hoodie hood-up, headphones drowning out the world with something loud enough to shake my fucking skull. All week had been a disaster — a slow, exhausting avalanche of bullshit — and for the first time in days, the music was actually helping. My chest felt a little looser. My breath wasn't fighting me. I almost felt… normal.
Then my stupid peripheral vision betrayed me.
A flicker of movement. A shape I knew too damn well.No. Nope. My brain was messing with me. Had to be.
I clenched my jaw and stared straight ahead, forcing myself to stay still. I wasn't doing this. Not again. I squeezed my eyes shut, muttering under my breath, "Don't fucking do this to yourself, Tom. She's not here. Get a grip."
But my heart — that traitorous, dumbass organ — punched through every bit of logic I had left. I cracked my eyes open and turned my head.
And there she was.
Sitting inside the little ice cream parlor across the path, hair falling forward, elbows on the table like the weight of the world was sitting right on her spine. No friends. No company. Just her. Alone.
And she looked sad. Not the dramatic, performative kind — the real kind. The kind that hits you like a fist in the ribs.