She looked up at me, eyes wide, lips parted. “Yes, I would’ve been pissed. Yes, I would’ve screamed. I probably would’ve blocked you, cursed you out, ignored your texts, ripped up our photos, maybe even burned that stupid matching journal we made — but I would’ve forgiven you eventually.” Her lips quivered. “Because I loved you more than I hated what you did,” I said, breath shaking. “And the difference is, if you had told me — if you had trusted me — we could’ve crawled through it together. I would’ve gotten over it. I really, truly believe I would’ve. Because our friendship was that deep. That real.” I sniffed, the lump in my throat growing again. “But now? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know if I’ll ever trust you again. And do you know the craziest part? The most insane part of all this?” She blinked at me, face soaked with tears. “I’m going to have to see your nasty face all year.” She froze. “What?” I took a deep, bitter breath. “Yeah. Surprise. My mum made a
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