Chapter 3

I stared at the condensation beading on the glass, cramps twisting through my lower stomach.

I didn't take the iced Coke. Instead, I stiffly reached out and pushed it away from me, inch by inch.

The obvious rejection silenced the noisy booth for a moment. Daniel's brow furrowed immediately.

"Evelyn, how long are you going to keep this up?"

I shook my head, forcing down the sob rising in my throat.

I didn't want to fall apart here, and I certainly didn't want to watch him dote on someone else.

"Let me out," I said, staring at the table.

"What?"

"I said, let me out. I don't feel well. I need to go home." I grabbed my bag and forced myself to stand from the innermost seat of the booth.

But Daniel sat by the aisle, like a wall, unmoving.

Not only did he refuse to move, but he slammed the iced Coke back onto the table with a loud thud, his face turning cold.

Harper's smile froze instantly, her expression shifting to uneasy embarrassment.

She bit her lower lip gently, glancing at me cautiously. "Is it because I'm here? Does Evelyn feel uncomfortable?"

"Ignore her," Daniel cut Harper off coldly, his tone dripping with mockery. "Drama Queen. Making a huge deal out of nothing and ruining everyone's night."

The other students in our section exchanged confused glances, the atmosphere freezing solid.

I covered my eyes, refusing to let anyone see me like this anymore.

I didn't wait for him to move. I squeezed past the narrow gap between his knees and the table.

My leg knocked against his knee. He cursed under his breath and seemed to reach for my arm.

But I didn't give him the chance.

I shoved the chair aside and bolted out of the restaurant with its deafening music, never looking back.

That mocking "Drama Queen" slapped my pride like a physical blow.

There was a time when if I so much as frowned, he'd frantically dig through his bag to find medicine for me.

Now, when I was in so much pain I could barely stand straight, I was nothing more than a joke to him.

Turns out when ten years of devotion gets withdrawn, you don't even get a proper goodbye.

On the way home, I let the cool night air hit my face, crying until my eyes were swollen and my throat raw.

When I pushed open the front door, Mom was sitting on the living room couch watching TV. Seeing me, she immediately muted it.

"Did you have another fight with Daniel?"

"He just sent me an iMessage asking why you blocked him."

I stayed silent for a moment.

I couldn't help but laugh bitterly to myself—a whole day had passed before he finally noticed he'd been blocked.

"What did he say?" I asked hoarsely.

"Nothing much. Just reminded me to keep an eye on your early application progress, and not to forget to pick colleges close to Boston when you're deciding."

Then she started nagging again.

"Daniel really is a good kid. You two grew up together, and he's always looking out for you."

"It's a shame your GPA isn't quite strong enough, and you're not exactly the most popular girl at school. I can understand why he doesn't see you that way. Otherwise, I'd really hope something could develop between you two."

I lowered my eyes, saying nothing.

Mom didn't notice anything wrong and continued: "By the way, we don't understand admission essays and all that. You should ask Daniel for help sometime—he's sharp."

"I heard that a few days ago, he spent several all-nighters at home helping his girlfriend revise her Harvard application essay. These kids are so driven, even when they're dating."

My fingers curled tightly, my heart seized by an invisible hand.

Mom kept going: "Yesterday I brought over some fresh cookies for his family, and I saw the essay drafts printed out on his desk. They were covered in his handwritten notes and revisions."

"I heard him tell Harper that every sentence had to be perfect—her profile was too strong to waste even a single point."

I stood frozen, my breathing pulling painfully at my chest.

Daniel and I had agreed long ago that we'd go to college in Boston together.

But East Coast schools had such high standards. With my grades, even getting into the most ordinary state university in Boston would require a struggle.

The day I got my SAT scores, I'd asked him playfully to look over my personal statement.

He hadn't even looked up, scrolling through his phone as he brushed me off:

"I don't really understand how applications work for regular schools. Your SAT score barely meets the cutoff for state universities anyway—just pick any one in the Boston suburbs."

"As for your major, it probably doesn't matter much for you."

Back then, I'd made excuses for him.

I thought geniuses like him only had eyes for elite academic programs at top schools—of course he wouldn't need to understand ordinary college applications.

But now, all those rose-colored glasses had shattered.

Mom suddenly remembered something: "Oh, your school counselor called me today too. He said those Boston schools are too competitive and asked me to talk to you. You..."

I cut her off.

"I'm not going to Boston anymore."