Chapter 2: Erasing Wendy

As I scrolled through photo after photo of Wendy, my roommate came in and said she was waiting outside the dorm for me.

There was this weird emptiness in my chest as I thumbed through our old pics—football games, her smile at IHOP. The sticky syrup bottles, the smell of burnt coffee, her smile across the booth—every swipe was like erasing a Saturday morning.

I rubbed my eyes and croaked, "Tell her not to wait. I’m not coming down."

My voice came out scratchy, like I’d been screaming or crying, even though I hadn’t. I tossed my phone face down on the bed, letting the rain tapping the window fill the silence.

We were done—what was the point of dragging it out?

Somewhere between the lines, I could tell my roommate was reading the vibe, like he was checking the weather for a storm. He dropped his backpack, crossed the room, his face creased with worry.

He turned me around, scanning my face. "Dude, what happened with Wendy? You two were like prom king and queen—did you screw up, or did she?"

I shot him a look: don’t even go there.

I turned off my phone and looked up. "It wasn’t a fight. We broke up."

The words felt foreign, like someone else was saying them. I stared at my wall—Springsteen poster, Red Sox schedule, old concert tickets—anything but him.

He was stunned. "No wonder she said she couldn’t reach you. So you blocked her?"

There was almost a weird respect in his tone, like dumping Wendy was as crazy as dunking on LeBron.

"Why’d you break up? Did Wendy cheat on you?"

Before I could answer, his phone rang. Wendy’s name lit up the screen.

I was about to tell him to hang up, but he answered, and suddenly her anxious voice poured out of the speaker.

Hearing her made my chest ache. I wanted to tell him to throw the phone out the window.

I jumped to stop him: "It’s not about her, don’t ask her..."

My voice was tight, urgent. My roommate’s eyes bounced between me and his phone, caught in the mess.

"Alex, is that you? Will you answer the phone?" Wendy’s voice was thin, shaky, stretching my name like a lifeline.

I went silent, shaking my head at my roommate, telling him to hang up.

He raised his brows, but I stared him down. He hesitated, then mouthed, "She’s really upset, man."

He listened to Wendy’s pleading and finally handed me the phone.

"If there’s any misunderstanding, clear it up quick."

The air was heavy with stuff we weren’t saying. My roommate always chose the truth over secrets.

There was no misunderstanding. She was never meant to be mine.

Even telling myself that, I felt the sharp sting of regret, like a paper cut you can’t stop poking.

On the other end, Wendy begged: "Alex, please, come downstairs. Let’s talk face to face."

She said it like we could fix everything with a couple words and a hug. Like all those nights in my car, listening to her talk about her dreams, could be rewound with a single conversation.

I took a deep breath and said flatly, "Wendy, I’ve said everything I need to say."

I tried to keep it even, like if I didn’t, I’d break.

"Since we’ve broken up, let’s not drag this out. Let’s part on good terms."

It sounded sterile, like canceling a gym membership, not ending a year together.

"If I don’t agree, it doesn’t count as breaking up!" Her voice spiked, desperate.

She’d always been stubborn, but now it sounded like panic. I pictured her outside, pacing in the rain, mascara running.

I didn’t want to keep going, so I hung up.

The click was louder than I expected. I set the phone face down, staring at the ceiling, counting water stains.

My roommate took the phone back, confused. "So why did you break up? That’s Wendy—you finally got her." He tossed me a Gatorade, trying to play it cool, but I could feel the curiosity burning.

Yeah, that’s Wendy.

Wendy Sterling—North Lake’s golden girl, top of every list, Instagram highlight reel, charity events, even that one photo with the governor. She made everyone else look like they lived in black-and-white.

She had a trail of admirers but never rumors. The myth was she was untouchable—never seen with a guy, never giving anyone a chance.

She was a straight-A student, did community service, ran clubs, probably had her valedictorian speech written by sophomore year. Even the professors liked her.

It took me a semester to win her over, and after a year, it was over.

The effort was exhausting—every gesture calculated, every risk measured. I still remembered our first real talk on the quad, her laugh bright in the fall air. Sometimes I wondered if I’d been a contestant in a game I never really got.

Falling for her was easy. Letting go was like trying to unlearn your first language. Every song, every building, every familiar scent reminded me of her.