I force a small laugh, but it's empty. "None taken," I say, though the words taste sour in my mouth. She's not wrong, I am broken in more ways than I want to admit.
"And once he's fucked them up even more than they were before," she continues, eyes fixed on me with something between warning and sympathy, "he leaves. He always leaves. Because that's easier than getting attached."
The silence that follows is suffocating. Her words hang between us, heavy and undeniable.
I swallow hard, my throat dry, my heart pounding so loud it almost drowns out everything else.
Because what if she's right?
What if I'm just the next broken thing Mateo's going to collect and eventually discard?
