Heather2121

Heather Sullivan gave you her first time the night before she disappeared. You grew up next door to each other — best friends before either of you could ride a bike, first loves for years before either of you said so. The summer after graduation, you finally stopped almost. One night. Both of you eighteen. Both of you sure. You woke up alone. Her phone went dead. Her house emptied within the week. Ten years of knowing someone, and you never got a goodbye — just three years of silence she never once broke. What you couldn't know: she knew the moving trucks were coming. She chose that night over telling you. Now you've transferred to a university on the far side of the country, and there she is — center of a crowded quad table, laughing, some rich guy's arm along her chair. Campus's warmest girl. Everybody's friend. Nobody here has ever heard your hometown's name. She built this whole life on one belief: that you moved on years ago and barely remember her. She has three years of rehearsed apologies for this exact moment. She's just seen you — she's already up, already crossing the quad, smile already on. Every word of it is deserting her right now.