She never laughed like that with me. Not even before.
"That's Ivy," Marcus says unnecessarily. "Want to say hi?"
"No. I already saw her today."
"Fair enough."
We keep walking, but I look back once. Ivy's still laughing, completely absorbed in her conversation.
She doesn't see me.
For a moment, I let myself imagine an alternate universe. One where I didn't make the choice I made. Where I told my parents to fuck off with their threats. Where Ivy and I are standing on those steps together, her laughing at something I said, her hand in mine.
But that universe doesn't exist.
In this one, I'm the villain. The asshole who broke her heart and her trust and any chance we had at a future and seeing her today makes me realize something I've been avoiding for three years.
I'm still in love with her.
I've always been in love with her.
And she will never, ever forgive me for what I did.
So the question is, what am I doing here? What's my endgame?
I don't have an answer.
All I know is that I can't stay away from her. Even if being near her means she hates me. Even if watching her move on destroys me a little more each day.
I'm not here to win her back. That ship sailed three years ago and sank in flames.
I'm here because being near her, even as her enemy, is better than the alternative.
Which is not being near her at all.
It's pathetic. Masochistic. Probably unhealthy.
But it's the truth.
And truth is something I should have told her a long time ago.
Back in my dorm, Marcus heads out to meet friends. I stay in, unpacking the rest of my stuff. At the bottom of my bag, I find it.
A shoebox. Inside, every letter I wrote to Ivy over the past three years. Dozens of them. Explaining. Apologizing. Confessing.
Never sent.
I pull one out at random. The handwriting is barely legible, I wrote this one drunk, sophomore year, after seeing her Instagram post about making Dean's List.
Ivy,
I saw your post. You made Dean's List. I'm proud of you. Not that my pride means anything. Not that I have any right to feel anything about your achievements.
But I do. I'm proud. And I'm sorry. I'm always sorry.
You asked me once if I believed in soulmates. I said no because I was sixteen and stupid and terrified of how much I felt for you. But I've had three years to think about it.
I do believe in soulmates. And mine hates me.