“Youssef.” I watch our reflections in the glass, keeping my voice steady despite the crazy pounding in my chest. “Did you really mean it?”
“Mean what?”
I can see us both still staring straight ahead, our reflections braced like we’re about to tumble through the glass.
“All those...All those things you said in that letter.”
I hear him swallow. His voice is hoarse when he speaks. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
My heart stops and cracks all over again. I hear a rushing in my ears, and my eyes start to burn.
“But why?” I whisper. I know I’m going to break down if I talk any louder. “I just don’t understand.”
“I—Paige.” His reflection turns to face me in the window. “Paige, look at me.”
I ball my sleeve up around my left hand and swipe at my eyes. I try to stonewall him, but I can’t. I only last a few seconds before I’m doing what he asked.
His face is a mix of confusion and awe that turns to complete shock when I feel the first hot tear spill down my cheek.
“Paige, why are you crying?”
A shard of fury cuts through the pain. How the hell can he not understand?
“Because it was real to me!” I’m shouting now, my voice ragged, but I don’t care. “It wasn’t some game or fantasy.I. Meant. It.I meant all of it, and I don’t really fucking care if it was stupid or if it wouldn’t have worked. I wanted to try, and you told me you did too. Over and over again, you told me you wanted to try. You said you’d fight for us. You said you’d fight forme.”
I finally give in to a sob, and before I know what’s happening, Youssef has one hand gripping my good shoulder and the other one cupping my cheek.
“Paige.” His eyes search my face, almost frantic. “Paige, I don’t understand.”
His thumb brushes one of my tears away, and it finally starts to click.
Something isn’t right here.
“Of course it was real to me,” he continues. “Of course I meant it. Every word. That’s why I wrote that letter. I wanted you to know. I wanted you to have something you could hold onto even when I was far away. I...I mean...I told you I loved you, Paige, and you told me to have a nice life.”
It’s like I just got pushed off a cliff.
“You...what?”
We stand frozen in a bizarre tableau, not saying anything as we watch each other with the same dizzying disorientation. I’m still crying. I can feel the tears trailing down my cheeks, but the rest of me has gone cold with shock.
“You did get my letter, right?” he finally says, the question edged with dread.
“I gotaletter,” I answer. “You said...You said it would be best if we just moved on and forgot each other.”
My mind is already racing ahead of me, echoes of my conversation with Zach coming back to mock me with how obvious it all should have been.
‘He typed it! Who the fuck types a letter like that?’
‘An asshole?’
Itwastyped by an asshole—just not Youssef.
“Did you write yours by hand?” I ask, the same dread now heavy in my tone.
“What?”
“Your letter. Did you write it by hand?”
