Page 27 of Exes That Puck
But I can’t tell her that. Because telling her would be another way of making this about me instead of respecting what she needs.
So I lie in the dark and promise myself that I’ll do better. Not for her because she’s made it clear she doesn’t want anything fromme. But for whoever comes next. For the person I’m going to become.
And if that person happens to be someone she could love without losing herself, well. Maybe in time, if we’re both brave enough to try again, we’ll find our way back to each other.
But right now, in this moment, the kindest thing I can do is let her go.
9
34 days of no contact
The laundry room hums with the familiar rhythm of washers and dryers, a soundtrack I’ve grown to love over the past month. There’s something meditative about sorting clothes, measuring detergent, watching soap bubbles swirl through the glass door. Simple tasks with clear beginnings and endings.
I swap out my regular sheets for the lavender-scented ones Mom sent in a care package, breathing in the clean smell. My phone sits on the folding table beside me, and I can see the ghost of three unsent drafts in my messages from weeks ago. They’re all to Zeke, all deleted before I could do something stupid.
How are you?Delete.
I saw your game highlights.Delete.
Do you ever think about—Delete delete delete.
The dryer buzzes. I fold my clothes, each crease a small victory. Thirty-four days of no contact. Thirty-four days of choosing myself.
The professor’s voice carries across the lecture hall as he discusses Pavlov’s experiments. I find myself actually engaged, hand shooting up when he asks about something I know.
I say the answer with confidence.
He nods approvingly. “Exactly right, Miss Day.”
A warm flush of pride spreads through my chest. When’s the last time I felt smart in class instead of just distracted? When’s the last time I raised my hand for any reason other than to leave early?
Barnes & Noble feels like a celebration now with its warm lighting and the soft rustle of pages being turned. I’m taping up a “Holiday Reads” display when a mom approaches with her son, maybe eight years old.
“Do you have anything about hockey?” she asks. “He’s just starting to play.”
The wordhockeyused to make my stomach clench. Now I just nod with a smile and lead them to the sports section, pulling out a beginner’s guide with cartoon illustrations of skating techniques.
“This one’s perfect,” I tell the kid, who grins and hugs the book to his chest.
His excitement is infectious. Pure. Nothing like the complicated tangle hockey became in my life.
My phone buzzes with group chat notifications.
Tori:study hall at 7?
Payton:Guys. Just saw wolf boy!
Emma: plot twist
Kara: labs are nice
Emma sends back a laughing emoji. The conversation feels light, normal. Like we’re just college girls figuring out our lives instead of me being the friend everyone worries about.
The first snow comes on a Tuesday, fat flakes that turn the campus into something from a Christmas card. We’re walking to dinner when Payton slips on the wet bricks, windmilling her arms dramatically.
I catch her elbow, both of us dissolving into laughter. “Graceful as always.”
“Shut up. These boots have zero traction.”
