Chapter 6: The Real Ending

That day you seemed in a bad mood, spoke little. I drank with you outside campus, didn’t ask why you were upset, knowing you wouldn’t tell me. Later I found out it was because Autumn posted a photo having breakfast at a hotel with a male friend. You stared at your phone, jaw clenched, eyes dark. I tried to distract you, but you barely responded.

I just quietly drank with you. After nine, I checked my phone and asked, "Lucas, the dorm will close soon. Should we head back?" You looked at me, silent, then leaned in and kissed me. I felt hope flicker, even as doubt crept in.

You turned to look at me, for a long time, your brows pale and pained in the bright light, then you kissed me. Later you took me to a nearby Holiday Inn. I didn’t refuse. I told myself it was a step forward, a sign you cared. I wanted to believe it.

Actually, we were rarely intimate. Since getting together, you almost never kissed or hugged me. Our first hand-holding was my initiative, maybe on the third date? I walked beside you, mustered courage, and carefully took your pinky. You paused, surprised, and looked at me. I felt my face flush, but didn’t let go.

I remember the rush of nerves, the way my heart raced. I wanted to be brave, to show you I cared. You found it funny and interesting, laughed, then grabbed my whole hand. You squeezed my hand, grinned, called me "adorable." I felt special for a moment.

I liked you so much. After being with you, I seemed to have skin hunger, loved being close, wanted you to hold my hand, hug me tight, kiss me, and hum softly at my neck. I craved affection, wanted to be the girl you couldn’t keep your hands off. But you didn’t seem interested in intimacy, and I didn’t want to be too forward—I’m a girl after all.

I worried about seeming desperate, crossing lines I shouldn’t. I waited for you to make the first move. I took it as you respecting me. Relationship bloggers say guys treat the ones they love with caution, not daring to cross boundaries. I thought you liked me.

I believed all the advice, convinced myself it was a sign of love. But once inside, you seemed to regret it, your face full of remorse. You apologized—for the first time. You said, "Sorry, Savannah, you should go back."

Your voice was soft, almost guilty. I wanted to ask why, but I bit my tongue. I liked you, thought intimacy with a loved one was happiness. I was secretly pleased, but your sudden remorse made me feel humiliated. I stared at the ceiling, wondering what I’d done wrong. I felt small, unwanted.

We started a long cold war. Actually, not a cold war, because unless I contacted you, you’d never reach out to me. I waited for your text, your call, anything. But the silence was deafening.

So it was just me in a cold war. I tried to hold out, but I always broke first. Back at the dorm, I hugged Mariah and cried. How could I cry out my grievance?

She held me, rubbed my back, whispered, "You deserve better." I wanted to believe her, but I couldn’t let go. Mariah gritted her teeth, asking if I was bewitched by you, what was so good about you for me to be so obsessed.

She shook her head, exasperated. "Savannah, you’re smarter than this." What was so good? I thought, maybe because you saved my life.

I remembered that day at the YMCA pool, the way you pulled me from the water, the panic in your eyes. It felt like fate. We first met at the school pool. I like swimming, it helps me clear my mind, isolating myself from the world. We met during spring break, few people stayed, and few were at the mixed pool. I swam alone in the deep end, but maybe because I hadn’t exercised in a while, I got a cramp.

I felt my leg seize, panic rising. The water seemed endless, cold, and unforgiving. I couldn’t call for help. I don’t know how you noticed, but fate turned at that moment. As I flailed in the water, no one noticed, but you came and grabbed me.

You dove in, strong arms pulling me up. I gasped for air, clutching the edge, your hand steady on my shoulder. I can’t describe it. I was suffocating, spasming in the water, then you plunged in, firmly grabbed my hand, and dragged me to the edge. When we surfaced, I breathed fresh air, you held my shoulder, anxiously asking, "Hey, are you okay?"

Your voice was urgent, eyes wide. I nodded, shivering, heart pounding. I snapped out of my dizziness, and at that moment, stared at you—love at first sight. I saw the concern in your eyes, felt a spark I couldn’t explain. I was hooked.

You might not believe it, but this love was overwhelming and sudden. My personality is flawed due to family. My mother divorced my cheating father and got severe depression. To keep her company, I had to stay by her side, never went to elementary or middle school, all my studies done by tutors. Until fifteen, I never left home.

I grew up in a quiet house, surrounded by books and silence. My mom’s sadness was heavy, but I tried to be her anchor. I had no experience interacting with peers, but longed for normal social life. Dating you was my first step out.

College was my escape, my chance to be normal. You were my first leap into the world. I asked your name, your Facebook, and later became the famous bootlicker and backup. I sent you a friend request, heart pounding, hoping you’d notice me. I didn’t know then what it would cost.

Everyone said I had no self-respect. I was good at learning, but no one taught me how to remain calm before someone I liked. I read every advice column, every dating blog, but nothing prepared me for real feelings.

The third reconciliation happened because you became a close contact for COVID and were quarantined. I don’t know when the virus started spreading silently. I found out you were sent to quarantine from a campus announcement. The world felt surreal, everyone on edge. I saw your name on the list, my heart jumped.

Without thinking, I searched how to volunteer. After the breakup, I kept wondering, when I showed up with your usual things and snacks, did you feel moved, did your heart soften? I packed a bag with your favorite snacks—granola bars, fruit cups—your hoodie, a bottle of Gatorade. I signed up, hoping you’d see how much I cared.

I don’t know, but you didn’t recognize me at first. Not your fault, I was in a bulky white suit. Until I called out, "Lucas." You turned, eyes wide, surprised. I pulled off my mask, grinning awkwardly.

You raised your brow, eyes wide in disbelief, expression complicated. I handed you the stuff, you asked, "Why are you here?" Your voice was softer than usual, almost grateful. I shrugged, trying to play it cool.

I said, "To keep you company." I wanted you to know I’d show up, even when it was hard. Looking back, I think maybe at that moment, I had a place in your memories. I hoped you’d remember me as someone who cared, not just a backup.

On the third day, your COVID test was positive. Even though the virus was less deadly and you were vaccinated, people still feel lost and fragile in such situations. I stayed by your side, wiping your forehead, bringing you water. The world felt quiet, suspended in time.

I don’t know if my presence eased your anxiety, but at least you were calm. Before being transferred, you said, "Don’t come along, Savannah, it’s dangerous." You tried to protect me, even if just for a moment. I ignored the warning, stubborn as ever.

You knew me so well, but that didn’t stop me. When you went to the shelter hospital, I got transferred too. I didn’t care about the risk. I wanted to be there for you.

Besides caring for you, I was a volunteer, so I had to do all the work. I could only sneak time to look after you. On the fifth day, you had a fever, not too high. I stayed by your side waiting for it to subside, but was so tired I fell asleep on the floor by your bed, head on the bedpost.

I woke up stiff, sunlight streaming in, your eyes watching me. I felt a flicker of hope. When I woke, you were watching me, eyes red. I couldn’t read your expression or the meaning in your gaze, but for the first time, your eyes were gentle. You said, "Is it worth doing this for me?"

Your voice was soft, almost vulnerable. I nodded, feeling brave. I nodded. It’s not just about worth. You might think I was lying, but I wasn’t. Taking care of you didn’t tire me, I liked—even enjoyed—being needed by you, because such moments were rare. I leaned on the bedpost, looking at you, then smiled, "When the fever’s gone, you’ll be out soon."

I tried to reassure you, even as my own heart ached. You softly replied, "Mm." You closed your eyes, letting me fuss over you. For a moment, we were just two people, no drama.

You seemed to care for me too. One day, a girl I looked after secretly gave me an apple. In the shelter, apples were rare. I couldn’t bear to eat it, so at night I put it by your pillow. I watched your face as you saw the apple, waiting for a smile.

You held the apple and asked, "Are you stupid?" You grinned, teasing me. I laughed, knowing you cared in your own way. I squinted and smiled. I’m not stupid, I just know what love is.

I wanted you to see how much I cared, even in small ways. After leaving the shelter, our relationship seemed to progress. We settled into a routine—texts, calls, little dates. I felt hope flicker again.

Like we’d gone through all stages of a couple, it became routine. At least, when I shared daily life or funny things, you’d respond. You’d invite me out, shopping, buying clothes and shoes, watching movies, holding my hand in the cold to warm me. I treasured every small gesture, every moment of closeness.

See, just a little bit of kindness made me happy. I’ve always been easy to please. I didn’t need grand gestures, just a little attention. You were good to me too. Less than a month after leaving the shelter, I got acute gastroenteritis, called you in a daze at midnight, woke up in the hospital with an IV. I looked around and saw you outside.

I squinted, saw your silhouette under the streetlamp, hands in pockets, kicking leaves. My heart fluttered. You stood under the oak tree, bored, kicking leaves, sunlight shining on you. You met my eyes, smiled, put out your cigarette, brushed off the smoke, and soon came into the ward.

You slipped inside, checked my IV, tucked the blanket around me. I felt safe, for once. You checked my IV, tucked my quilt, asked softly, "What do you want to eat?" Your voice was gentle, almost shy. I smiled, feeling cared for.

I looked at the next bed, an old man with his granddaughter, who licked ice cream and curiously watched us. The little girl smiled at me, holding out her cone. I wanted to laugh at how normal life felt.

You thought I wanted ice cream, hesitated, "Gastroenteritis can’t eat it, right?" But when the nurse came to check, you still asked, "Excuse me, can my girlfriend eat Ben & Jerry’s?" The nurse rolled her eyes, scolded you gently. I giggled, watching you blush.

You got an eyeroll and a scolding. I laughed watching you get scolded. When the nurse left, you shrugged, meaning, it’s not my fault you can’t have it. You winked, grinning. For a second, I felt like we were a real couple.

See, everything was getting better. I even thought I’d finally made it, but you suddenly broke up with me. I felt blindsided, lost. I replayed every moment, wondering what I missed.

Yes, the fourth time, you broke up with me. How cruel can a guy be to a girl he doesn’t love? You didn’t even break up face-to-face, just said it on Messenger, then apologized. I stared at the screen, numb. The words felt cold, final. I wanted to scream.

I couldn’t accept it, wanted to get to the bottom of it, so I kept looking for you. I sent messages, called, even showed up at your dorm, desperate for answers. But you didn’t reply on Messenger, I couldn’t reach you by phone, you weren’t around the first week of school. Your advisor said you took a week off, so I had to ask your roommates and classmates.

I felt like a stalker, chasing a ghost. I hated myself for caring so much. That period of frequent contact must have been annoying, maybe harassment. Your friends and classmates avoided me. Until a week later, I saw you holding Autumn’s hand under your dorm.

It was like a punch to the gut. I finally saw the truth—clear, undeniable. Everything was explained. I felt the world tilt, everything suddenly making sense. I was free, but it hurt.

Your previous fatigue was clear. I don’t know if two years apart made you forget each other’s flaws, or made you miss each other more, or if ex-girlfriends always win over current ones. Anyway, you got back together. I watched you laugh with her, the way you used to with me. I realized some stories aren’t meant to be rewritten.

That time I seemed like a hysterical lunatic. I couldn’t understand, because we were so harmonious, you were accepting me, I could feel your tenderness. I couldn’t let go... Sorry, but I just couldn’t figure it out. I cried for days, replaying every moment, every word. I wanted closure, but it never came.

So I added Autumn Sinclair on Facebook, messaged her, asked if she knew she was getting between me and my boyfriend. I told her how much I liked you, begged her to give you back. I typed out my feelings, desperate for answers, for justice. I hit send, hoping for a miracle.

She didn’t reply, but you came to me that night. You showed up, angry and hurt. I realized then that I’d crossed a line. You lost your temper, looked exasperated, shook my shoulders, shouted, "Savannah, are you crazy?" Your voice echoed in the hallway, raw and real. I felt exposed, vulnerable.

That was the last of your guilt toward me. You said, "Autumn is innocent, she knows nothing. Why did you drag her into this?" You looked at me like I was the villain. I cried, wishing you’d see my side.

Tears streamed down my face. I asked, "Because when you started things up with her again, I was still your girlfriend." I wanted you to admit the truth, to take responsibility.

You said something I’ll never forget: "Sorry, in my heart, I never broke up with her. She’s always been my girlfriend." You said, "I’ve never liked you. If someone doesn’t love you, you’re just the third wheel."

The words cut deep, sharper than any breakup. I felt my world collapse. After that I couldn’t hear anything you said, my ears buzzed, my brain dizzy, like a concussion. All I could think was that my year of liking and effort was wasted, a joke.

I stumbled out, feeling numb, broken. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. One sentence from you denied all my true feelings over two years. It felt like my whole life was a lie. I wanted to erase every memory.

Sorry, at this point I kind of hate you. Why did I like you? Maybe you’re a good friend, student, lover, but to me, you’re a terrible boyfriend. I started listing every flaw, every hurt. It helped me let go.

You wouldn’t use couple profile pics, never gave me gifts or remembered our anniversaries, treated me coldly and carelessly, always busy, never listened to me, never reached out first. You’re insincere, fake, childish, petty, played with feelings... I wrote it all down, determined to remember why I had to move on.

And you never liked me... The truth was ugly, but it set me free. Mm, my heart doesn’t hurt so much anymore, not because I miss you, but because the pain was too much. But I’m slowly getting over it. I said I’d call this letter enlightenment, enlightenment—great awakening. But in the hearts of many girls who’ve been let down, enlightenment is sleepless nights and stubborn obsession.

I realized healing isn’t a straight line. Some nights I still cry, but most days I’m okay. Luckily, I’ve made peace with myself. I forgave myself for loving, for hoping, for trying. I promised to do better next time.

In our relationship, I was always like a cockroach that wouldn’t die, but cockroaches are just tenacious, not immortal. Lucas, it was your words that made me lose hope in you completely. I smiled, finally feeling free. I let myself grieve, then let myself move on.

Nowadays, loving someone sincerely seems embarrassing. I don’t think so. When I loved you, I did my best, was sincere and passionate, so I have no regrets. I accept this ending. I held my head high, knowing I gave it my all. That’s enough for me.

I think this Bootlicker’s Enlightenment Guide is enough now. I closed my notebook, feeling lighter. I was ready for something new.

Postscript: Mariah. I called Savannah, asked, "Murder mystery night, we need one more, want to join?" She picked up after two rings, voice shaky but hopeful. I could hear her smile through the phone.

On the other end, she stammered, surprised, "Ah? Mariah, I... I can come?" I rolled my eyes on the phone. After so long, she’s still silly.

But she came quickly, no nonsense. We started right away. It was a brain-burning suspense game—Clue, Escape Room style—but luckily Savannah is smart, with strong logic, calm, good at catching details we missed, leading us through the game. The room was full of snacks—nachos, burgers, Coke cans—everyone laughing, teasing.

She slipped into the group easily, her old confidence shining through. I watched her laugh, her eyes bright, finally at ease. Everyone was exhausted at the end, but all praised Savannah: "You’re amazing."

She blushed, eyes bright, looking at me as if waiting for my praise. I grinned, nudged her shoulder, "Told you you were the brains of the operation." We fell out before because of her scumbag boyfriend. Clearly so outstanding, yet always insecure—a bootlicker, a backup—no matter how I scolded her, she wouldn’t wake up. Really... sigh, forget it, it’s all in the past—maybe.

I watched her laugh with the others, her guard finally down. I hoped she’d never settle for less again. Because when we left, I saw Lucas.

He was loitering by the parking lot, hands in his pockets, pretending not to watch us. I felt my blood boil. The lot was full of streetlights, cars—mostly old Toyotas and Fords—his friends hanging back, eyes on Savannah.

Lucas, Lucas, what’s this jerk doing here? He looked at Savannah, asked naturally, "I told you to eat pizza, why didn’t you reply?" His tone was casual, almost arrogant, like nothing had changed. I wanted to scream.

Shameless. I turned to watch Savannah’s reaction. If this love-brain fell for it again, I’d never forgive her, ever! I held my breath, waiting to see if she’d crack.

But unexpectedly, she was calm, even cold, looking at Lucas and saying, "If you want pizza, go eat. What’s it got to do with me?" Her voice was steady, eyes clear. I almost cheered.

Beautifully done. I couldn’t help laughing inside. I’d heard about his exploits after getting back with Autumn—apparently got cheated on. I didn’t know why he came for Savannah, maybe realized her worth, maybe wanted to use her to provoke Autumn. But none of that matters.

I shrugged, deciding it was his loss, not hers. Savannah deserved better. What matters is, when Lucas said, "I really regret it, can we start over?" I heard Savannah coldly retort, "Lucas, do you know how many men there are in the world?"

She smiled, all confidence, finally free. "3.5 billion. Who do you think you are?" Holding Savannah’s hand on the way back to campus, I kept laughing, mouth wide. That’s right, girls—when you don’t feel loved, you must retreat in time, don’t fool yourself. Whether he loves you, you know in your heart.

I squeezed her hand, proud of how far she’d come. "You know your worth now," I whispered. Anyway, everyone is unique, has the right to be loved. 'Like' is a beautiful feeling—it must be given to someone worthy.

I looked at Savannah, asked, "Remember the nachos at Main Street? Want to go together?" She smiled with her eyes, nodded hard.

We walked off into the night, laughing, ready for a new beginning. The campus quad was quiet, the lights of the student union glowing, the promise of burgers and fries ahead. Savannah’s laughter echoed in the night, and for the first time, I knew she’d be okay.

As we turned onto Main Street, I felt a thrill of hope. Tomorrow, anything could happen. And this time, Savannah would choose herself first.