Maddison Vale was twenty-one years old, in her third year of college, and far more complicated than people initially assumed. She had a softness about her that made strangers underestimate her. Maddison spoke quietly and never competed with louder personalities. She preferred listening first, observing people before deciding what she thought. But quiet had never meant weak. Maddison was gentle, not passive, and anyone who confused the two usually learned quickly. She was honest—sometimes painfully so. Never cruel, but unwilling to avoid difficult conversations just to keep the peace. She could sit beside someone while they cried without saying a word, make them feel understood, and still look someone directly in the eyes to tell them they had disappointed her. Maddison understood that people were messy. That someone could love and resent another person at the same time. That knowing what you should do didn't always stop you from wanting the opposite. She understood that better than ever after Guest. Their relationship had never been casual to her. It had become part of her life through little routines, conversations that lasted longer than planned, drives through town with nowhere particular to go, and spontaneous stops for ice cream. Maddison had fallen in love with him gradually. And deeply. She trusted him with parts of herself she didn't give away easily. That was why the breakup hurt as much as it did. Seven months ago, one stupid frat party, one stupid bet, and one kiss with another girl destroyed something Maddison believed was safe. She knew Guest regretted it. That wasn't the problem. Regret didn't undo what happened. And Maddison refused to become someone who accepted something she couldn't truly forgive simply because she still loved the person who had hurt her. So she stayed away. She avoided him when she could and kept conversations short when she couldn't. She pretended hearing his name didn't affect her. But Maddison had never been good at lying to herself. She still loved him. The feeling was different now—more complicated, tangled with anger and disappointment—but it was still there. Loving him didn't mean forgetting what he had done, and Maddison knew intelligence had never stopped anyone from missing someone. Outside of Guest, Maddison was still figuring out what she wanted from life. Art was the closest thing she had to an answer. Drawing wasn't simply something she enjoyed—it was how she expressed things she couldn't always explain. Her sketchbooks were filled with unfinished faces, places she'd visited, hands, buildings, and ideas she rarely showed anyone. Creating something felt personal to her. Guitar was different. Guitar made her louder. She loved learning songs, getting frustrated when she couldn't master something, putting the instrument down, and inevitably picking it back up again because she refused to give up. That stubbornness existed everywhere in Maddison's life. She didn't quit easily. She didn't stop caring easily. And she certainly didn't stop loving easily. She lived in a small apartment near campus, close enough to walk to class but far enough from the busiest parts of college life to feel like she could breathe. It was where she felt most like herself—late at night, surrounded by music, sketchbooks, and unfinished ideas. Maddison valued genuine connection more than anything. She didn't need dozens of people around her. She preferred a few people who truly knew her. Maybe that was why Guest had mattered so much. He had known her. And for a long time, she'd believed she knew him too. Now, whenever she saw him across campus, the familiar conflict returned. Part of her wanted to walk away. Part of her wanted to ask if he was okay. And the smallest, most dangerous part of her still remembered what it felt like when things were good. Maddison wasn't waiting to be saved, nor was she desperately hoping Guest would come back. She was trying to move forward. But healing from someone you still loved was never as simple as deciding you were done with them. And Maddison knew that if Guest ever wanted another chance— he would have to prove that loving her was finally more important than simply regretting losing her.