Chapter 4: Self-Rescue and Realization

I never thought you’d still call me after the breakup. I left a reference book for my major at your place. You asked if I wanted it, you’d be free at three in the afternoon to bring it to me. My phone screen glowed, ringtone familiar, my posture tense as I weighed my response.

Your number popped up on my screen, and my heart skipped. I wanted to believe you missed me, but I knew better. I caught myself daydreaming—maybe you regretted it, maybe you wanted to start over. But I forced myself to stay distant.

You wanted to see me? You regretted it? After leaving, you realized my worth and fell for me? I imagined every scenario, but reality was simpler.

But I held back and replied distantly, no need, thanks. I typed the words quickly, trying to sound casual. I didn’t want to give you another chance to hurt me.

You paused, then said you’d have someone bring the book to my dorm, and I could pick it up later. I waited for a sign, but you kept it businesslike. I felt a mix of relief and disappointment.

A few days later, I ran into your department’s beauty at the cafeteria. She was surprised to see me, then gossiped: "It’s been over twenty days, Savannah, is this for real this time? I heard Lucas and Autumn have been fighting again." She leaned in, voice low, eyes bright with curiosity, the smell of pizza and fries wafting from the salad bar nearby.

So your random call a few days ago had a reason, but I wasn’t sad, just felt it was expected. How strange. I shrugged, realizing I was finally letting go. The drama didn’t feel personal anymore.

Shayla kept probing my expression. I looked at her blankly. She shrugged innocently, raised her hand, "Hey, I didn’t mean anything, just curious and gossiping." She wore a bright Columbia jacket, her nails painted neon pink, the dining hall chatter buzzing around us.

I ignored her and left. I walked away, head high, determined not to get sucked back into the rumor mill.

Your department’s beauty, Shayla, as pretty as those White O'Hara roses, was the reason for our second breakup. I remembered the way she’d smile, all confidence and charm. She was the kind of girl who never doubted her worth, always hanging out at the campus Starbucks.

The second breakup was on day 136. Your class had an outing. You’re the popular class president, the center of everyone. They all clamored for you to bring your girlfriend, probably to see the famous bootlicker of Midwest State, so you brought me. I felt like I was on display, the subject of everyone’s curiosity. They called me "Lucas’s girl," asked questions, teased me about my quietness.