Chapter 15

I managed to avoid seeing Aiden again until move-in day, though it wasn't easy living next door. I timed my coffee runs and grocery trips to avoid his car. I even started taking the long way everywhere, just in case.

Maya sent me his Instagram post—a perfectly filtered photo of him and Madison at a rooftop party, his caption announcing they were officially a couple. I deleted the notification without opening it, but not before noticing the rapidly accumulating likes. All our mutual friends had already accepted this new reality.

I meticulously purged my social media, blocking anyone connected to him: his friends, his cousins, even his little sister who used to borrow my makeup. There was no point keeping any windows into his life open. Some doors need to remain firmly shut.

But the universe possesses a cruel sense of humor—we ran into them at JFK. Madison, naturally, looked like she'd stepped from a travel influencer's feed, complete with a matching luggage set and designer sweats. Her meticulously curated airport attire made my jeans and Columbia hoodie (a relic from before everything fell apart) feel suddenly childish.

Aiden barely managed a stiff "Hello" to my parents before hurrying away. He looked right through me, as if I were a stranger in the crowded terminal.

We quickly dispersed, everyone pretending the encounter wasn't excruciatingly awkward. No one looked back, because looking back meant acknowledging our collective loss.

At security, I caught one last glimpse of him heading to his gate—the one for New York-bound flights. He must have sensed my gaze because he turned, just for a moment. One final, cold look before he disappeared through the doors, Madison's hand nestled perfectly in his.

Just like that, the boy who'd been present for every major moment of my life—first day of school, braces, driver's test, prom—was walking toward a different future. The boy who knew all my secrets, all my fears, all my dreams—or at least, the dreams I'd harbored before learning to dream beyond him.

Our paths were finally diverging.

"Good luck with your life," I thought silently, watching his retreating figure. Some childhood stories lack happy endings. Some prince charmings turn out to be just boys who never learned to see beyond themselves.

I turned toward my own gate, my ticket to San Francisco clutched in my hand. Stanford awaited, and for the first time in my life, I was writing my own story—no co-author needed.