Sage's POV
People think I'm heartless.
Let them.
It's easier that way. Easier than explaining that sometimes love doesn't look like flowers or promises — sometimes it looks like distance, silence, damage. Sometimes the only way to keep someone safe is to make sure they never come close enough to be hurt.
And Ivy?
She was the only person who ever looked at me like I was more than the chaos I carry. Like I was still fixable.
That's why I had to break that look in her eyes.
I remember the moment. The hallway. Her voice — soft, cautious — asking if I was okay. She was always asking. Like she could sense the storm building in me before it cracked the sky.
So I snapped. Said something cruel. Maybe shoved past her harder than I needed to. Maybe made her flinch on purpose.
Because I knew if I let her stay, she'd drown in me. And I'm not like Aleah — I don't want anyone to drown.
I want them to run.
But now, every time I see Ivy across a room, laughing too loudly, pretending too hard, my chest tightens. Like there's a wire still connecting us, pulled taut, humming with all the things I never said.
You were the only one who saw me.
You were the only one I didn't want to break.
But I did anyway.
Because I thought maybe if I hurt you enough, you'd learn not to come back.
And maybe that's love too — the broken kind. The kind that doesn't ask for forgiveness, only distance.
Still, sometimes I wonder.
If I looked her in the eye now, if I said, "I never meant to be cruel, I just didn't know how else to let you go" — would it matter?
Or did I already teach her not to listen?