But the one I'm looking at—it's not me.

It's her.

He's on his feet moving toward me, but I can't move. I can't tear my eyes away from his drawing of her.

"Baby," he says, panic clear in his voice.

My eyes shut tight. More tears than I thought I could hold stream down my face.

I flinch when he touches me.

"Fuck Lucy, it's not—"

I turn away before he can finish. I run outside, where I finally let myself breathe.

"Lucy," he shouts after me, pulling on my arm so I'm facing him. "It's not—"

"Stop it!" I shout through my sob. "Just stop, Cameron! I don't want to hear it."

He pulls at his hair and curses the sky. Then he looks down at me through his lashes. "I love you, Lucy," he sighs.

That's it.

That's all he says.

My fists ball. My heart pounds hard against my chest. I want to yell. I want to scream. But I don't do either. Instead, I clench my jaw and I whisper, "I don't believe you."

He steps forward, reaching for me again. But I pull back, disgusted by his touch.

I try. I try so fucking hard to keep it in. To hold it together. But I can't. I can't fucking do it anymore. "When did you draw her?"

He shakes his head and says my name again. But it's not a fucking answer. And it's not enough.

"When!"

He rubs his eyes along his forearm. He's crying. Good. He fucking deserves to. "When she was in my dorm once."

I feel the bile rise in my throat. I want to puke. I want so badly to feel something else. Something not this. My hand presses against my stomach—hoping to ease the ache. "Were you alone?" I let out another sob as I imagine them. Working together. Alone. So alone that he had time to draw her.

He drops his head, but his eyes—they stay on mine. And then he nods, just once, but it's more than enough.

And even though I already knew the answer, it doesn't stop the pain, or the anger.

"Lucy, it doesn't mean anything."

And then I lose it.

I shove his chest so hard it makes him fall back a step. "It doesn't mean anything?" I shout. "Cameron. You said I was your art. You said I was your heart. And now you're saying that it doesn't mean anything?"

His hand reaches for me again but I push it away. I hate that he can make me feel like this. I hate that he can make me hate him.

I drop my shoulders and try to level my breathing. I try to speak, but my voice is strained. "That was mine, Cam. Your art was mine. It was something you shared with me. Only me." My body shakes with each sob. "You gave her a piece of me. A piece of us. You shared something that was so special to me, and you gave it to someone else. You gave her your heart, Cam."

He just stands there watching me, not able to say a word. Because he knows—he can't say anything to make it better.

To make it stop.

To make it right.

I turn around, walk to my car, and rush to get in, just so I can cry in peace. So I can let my heart shatter.

He follows, getting in the passenger's seat. "Lucy, please."

"Get out!"

"Baby."

"Cam! STOP!"

He flinches at the harshness of my words, but I don't care.

"You need to stop. All of it. Just stop! Please. You can't keep hurting me like this." I'm pleading with him, begging him to leave me the fuck alone. "I can't take anymore of it!" I drop my head on the steering wheel and I cry. And cry. And cry. "It hurts so much," I say to no one.

I hear him sniff, see him wiping his eyes, but I can't force myself to care.

He created this.

He made this happen.

"It hurts so fucking much," I tell him now. "You hurt me." I sit up so I can face him. "Just get out, please, Cameron."

He throws his head back against the seat. And that's how we stay. Me watching him. Him crying. Me sobbing. Feeling everything around us slowly fade away.

I'm fading.

To blackness.

Just like Mom did.

Then he opens the door and steps out of the car—not a single word spoken.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

-LUCY-

I spent all night crying so hard that I threw up. Numerous times. I told Rose I got drunk to celebrate end of finals—she didn't believe me, but she didn't call me out. She held my hair while I did everything I could to not knock on Cameron's door and demand an explanation. She helped me into bed, and held me while I cried—until I was so fucking exhausted from all of it that my cries finally lost their fight to control me.

*

When Minge opens the door to their room the next morning with a smile on his face, I don't question it.

When he sees that it's me and his face falls, and he partially closes the door, alarm bells start ringing.

When I ask him what's up and to open the door, and all he does is shake his head, I know something's wrong.

I flatten my palm against the door and shove it forward. He doesn't stop me.

When I see Roxy sitting on Cameron's bed, I die a little.

The bathroom door opens and he steps out, wearing nothing but sweatpants and a towel around his neck. He sees me first, and whatever look I have on my face—he matches. And then his eyes move to the girl on his bed. The one I can't bring myself to look at.

"Fuck," he spits, hurriedly taking the steps to get to me.