Page 75 of Dream On, Liar

His eyes held mine for a second longer.

Then something in his expression shifted.

Not anger, or hurt. But something more dull.

“You want to know why I’m so hot and cold with you? Because, Maeve—every time we make some kind of progress, I get a reality check. I want to move past it, but how can I when it’s affecting the only thing I have in my life? We’re stuck with each other, sure—but we’ll never be friends. You’ve made it clear how you have plans to ask for a transfer once this tour is done. Great. You can live with the consequences of your decisions, like you think I need to.”

Rihaan took a step back, before pausing. “And you want to know what the worst part about this is?”

My voice quivered as the words left me easily. “What?”

“You haven’t even once apologised,” He muttered, making me pinch my brows. “You keep on saying how—”

He stopped himself at my expression, clearly mistaking my search for the accuracy of his words as a sign that I didn’t agree with him. Which, truthfully, I didn’t—but if some words was all it took to stop this mind fuck between us, I’d say them.

“Forget it.”

He turned.

“Wait—”

But he was already walking away.

“Rihaan.”

He didn’t stop.

I stood there, watching him disappear down the corridor, the sound of his footsteps fading too quickly.

And just before he turned the corner, he turned to give me one hard look. “Fuck this truce.”

THREE DAYS.

It had been three days since the truce I had clung to like it meant something solid, something real had been called off.

And this time, Rihaan came with all guns blazing.

I wished I could say that it didn’t bother me that Rihaan had barely said a word to me since that conversation.

Not a sarcastic comment. Not a passing remark. Not even the low, habitual grunt he used when he was too tired to form sentences but still wanted to acknowledge I existed in the same space as him.

Nothing.

But then it stretched into a second day.

And by the third day, it wasn’t something I could pretend away anymore.

It had become a presence of its own.

Heavy. Intentional. Directed.

Like he was actively choosing not to let me in.

I tried.

God, I tried.

I told myself it was fine—that he was angry, that he had every right to be, that people didn’t just reset after something like that. I buried myself in work, in assessments, in taping wrists and shoulders and pretending the rhythm of it all could drown out the fact that he wouldn’t even look at me properly anymore.