I throw. It’s decent. She throws again. Better.
We go round after round, and the room starts to feel smaller. Warmer. Her laugh starts to sound real. My shoulders loosen. The distance between us starts to crack.
Final throw.
She just misses the bull.
I step up. Take aim.
Land a perfect shot.
Barely.
She groans, dramatic. “Rigged.”
I bow, mock-formal. “Truth or dare?”
Her eyes narrow. “Seriously?”
“It’s tradition.”
“Which part of this feels like a high school party to you?”
“The part where I want to know what you’d say.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t laugh. But she doesn’t walk away either.
The silence thickens between us.
“I’m not playing,” she says at last.
But her fingers drift along the rim of her glass like she’s remembering how.
I nod. “Okay.”
We’re quiet again.
Then she says, “You never asked why I left that day.”
“I figured you didn’t want me to.”
“I didn’t. But you should’ve asked anyway.”
My chest is tight.
I stare down at my drink.
“I almost did,” I say. “Every day. Then I figured you were done.”
“I was scared,” she says.
I look up.
She’s not smiling now.
“I knew if I told you everything... you’d follow me,” she continues. “And I couldn’t lose you too.”
Her voice is raw. Low.
