I do my best to fake a smile and nod, knowing that she'd want to talk about it if she knew something was up. I didn't want her to worry, and I didn't want to talk about it. She rushes to leave so she can catch Jake before he has an exam. I hang around and read for a bit, knowing that Rose won't be done for another hour. I don't want to talk about what's been going on with Cam, but I don't want to be alone either.

When I know it's time, I start to make my way to the exit.

-CAMERON-

Roxy called and asked if I needed help with tomorrow's final. I told her I'd need a second brain because my current one was useless. She laughed at that, and said to meet her in the library. I called Lucy before I left. I wanted her to know what I was doing. If she flat out said not to, I wouldn't have, but she didn't answer. And I sure as shit needed the help.

"Sometimes I watch you," Roxy whispers from next to me.

"That's not creepy."

She chuckles, the huskiness in her voice coming out full force. "No. I mean when you're sketching, or planning. It's like you're bored. Like you wish your fingers would do something more exciting than draw straight lines. Do you draw? For fun, I mean?"

I shrug, not knowing what else to do.

"I want to be an artist, Cam," she starts. "I wish that there were some form of job security in being an artist, but there isn't. So I design. I don't love it, but I do it. Why do you do it?"

I turn to her now, but she's already looking at me. "Lucy's the only one that's seen my work. She thinks I should show the world. She tries to get me to enter competitions, even if it's anonymously. She thinks I'm good, but I don't know if she's just saying it for the sake of saying it. I don't even know if she knows what good is."

"Show me."

"I don't have anything."

"Bullshit," she clips. "If you're anything like me, you do it whenever something inspires you. Don't be afraid." She draws a cross over her heart with her finger. "I'll be honest. If it's shit, I'll tell you. How else are you going to know?"

I push down my nerves. My palms are already sweaty from the thought of actually showing someone else.

"Come on," she encourages.

I reach down into my backpack and pull out a sheet of paper. I unfold it and place it face down on the table. "Show me," she says, bouncing in her seat.

I suck in a huge breath and forcefully blow it out.

And then I flip it.

She gasps.

I hold my breath.

And then...

"Cameron?"

Lucy.

My eyes lift.

My world ends.

-LUCY-

Sometimes I wonder what it was like for Mom—to know that every day things went from bad to worse—and she couldn't do anything about it. And then I wonder what it felt like for her when the fight was over and she took her last breath.

For years I wondered.

But right now, I think I know.

My eyes are fixed on the sketch as my tears cause it to blur with each passing second. It's Cameron's work. I know it is—because I live and breathe his art. When he's not around, I stare at the pages—for hours sometimes. Sketch after sketch, pictures of me, and of our life together.

But the one I'm looking at—it's not me.

It's her.

He's on his feet moving toward me, but I can't move. I can't tear my eyes away from his drawing of her.

"Baby," he says, panic clear in his voice.

My eyes shut tight. More tears than I thought I could hold stream down my face.

I flinch when he touches me.

"Fuck Lucy, it's not—"

I turn away before he can finish. I run outside, where I finally let myself breathe.

"Lucy," he shouts after me, pulling on my arm so I'm facing him. "It's not—"

"Stop it!" I shout through my sob. "Just stop, Cameron! I don't want to hear it."

He pulls at his hair and curses the sky. Then he looks down at me through his lashes. "I love you, Lucy," he sighs.

That's it.

That's all he says.

My fists ball. My heart pounds hard against my chest. I want to yell. I want to scream. But I don't do either. Instead, I clench my jaw and I whisper, "I don't believe you."

He steps forward, reaching for me again. But I pull back, disgusted by his touch.

I try. I try so fucking hard to keep it in. To hold it together. But I can't. I can't fucking do it anymore. "When did you draw her?"

He shakes his head and says my name again. But it's not a fucking answer. And it's not enough.

"When!"

He rubs his eyes along his forearm. He's crying. Good. He fucking deserves to. "When she was in my dorm once."

I feel the bile rise in my throat. I want to puke. I want so badly to feel something else. Something not this. My hand presses against my stomach—hoping to ease the ache. "Were you alone?" I let out another sob as I imagine them. Working together. Alone. So alone that he had time to draw her.

He drops his head, but his eyes—they stay on mine. And then he nods, just once, but it's more than enough.

And even though I already knew the answer, it doesn't stop the pain, or the anger.

"Lucy, it doesn't mean anything."

And then I lose it.

I shove his chest so hard it makes him fall back a step. "It doesn't mean anything?" I shout. "Cameron. You said I was your art. You said I was your heart. And now you're saying that it doesn't mean anything?"

His hand reaches for me again but I push it away. I hate that he can make me feel like this. I hate that he can make me hate him.

I drop my shoulders and try to level my breathing. I try to speak, but my voice is strained. "That was mine, Cam. Your art was mine. It was something you shared with me. Only me." My body shakes with each sob. "You gave her a piece of me. A piece of us. You shared something that was so special to me, and you gave it to someone else. You gave her your heart, Cam."

He just stands there watching me, not able to say a word. Because he knows—he can't say anything to make it better.

To make it stop.

To make it right.

I turn around, walk to my car, and rush to get in, just so I can cry in peace. So I can let my heart shatter.

He follows, getting in the passenger's seat. "Lucy, please."

"Get out!"

"Baby."

"Cam! STOP!"

He flinches at the harshness of my words, but I don't care.

"You need to stop. All of it. Just stop! Please. You can't keep hurting me like this." I'm pleading with him, begging him to leave me the fuck alone. "I can't take anymore of it!" I drop my head on the steering wheel and I cry. And cry. And cry. "It hurts so much," I say to no one.

I hear him sniff, see him wiping his eyes, but I can't force myself to care.

He created this.

He made this happen.

"It hurts so fucking much," I tell him now. "You hurt me." I sit up so I can face him. "Just get out, please, Cameron."

He throws his head back against the seat. And that's how we stay. Me watching him. Him crying. Me sobbing. Feeling everything around us slowly fade away.