I didn’t move.
Not when she shoved back her chair so hard the legs screeched against the cafeteria floor. Not when her angry tears caught in the fluorescent light. Not even when her words—“Screw you”—hit me like a sucker punch I hadn’t seen coming and she had grabbed her bag and turned to leave.
Nah, I didn't move at all.
I just sat there, frozen, staring at the empty space she left behind.
My chest hurt. It actually hurt. Like someone had reached in and wrung my heart dry. I wanted to go after her, to grab her hand and explain, to tell her she was wrong, that I’d never thought she was stupid, that she mattered to me more than she could imagine, that I was the stupid one for mentioning that the kiss did not matter. But my legs didn’t move. Because she was hurting—hurting because of
