He was still leaning against my car when I walked over. He looked like he belonged there, as if the last few months hadn't happened—as if nothing had changed. I stopped a few steps back. Al stood beside me, a silent, steady weight ready to step in if the air turned sour. Zack didn't move; he just watched me with that familiar look—the one that used to make me feel chosen. Now, it just made me feel nauseous. "Move," I said. My voice was steady, and I felt a flicker of pride at my own composure. He slowly shook his head. "Not until you listen." "I'm not doing this, Zack," I declared. "You are," he retorted, his jaw setting. "Because I'm not leaving until you do."
That was the thing about Zack: he never understood boundaries once he realized he no longer had a seat at the table. He was terrified of losing my attention, but even more terrified of losing the care I used to provide. "You have one minute," I said coldly. He let out a dry, humorless laugh. "One minute? You gave me two goddamn years." "And you wasted every second of them."
The remark silenced him. He ran a hand through his hair, looking frustrated but not surprised. "I made a mistake," he admitted, his voice softening. "No," I corrected him instantly. "You made a decision." His jaw tightened at the distinction. "She meant nothing." "And yet, you still chose her. So don't give me that bullshit."
Silence enveloped us, heavy and thick. The wind rustled through the parking lot, and I could feel the weight of eyes on us. Thankfully, I didn't see any of my fellow teachers or students' parents—just strangers from the surrounding offices. Still, the exposure felt like a physical heat. "She used me," he said after a moment. "And you let her," I replied.
He stared at me as if I were being unfair—as if cheating were a weather event that had happened to him, rather than a choice he had made. "Why are you acting like I killed someone?" he snapped. Something inside me went very still. "Because you killed how I saw you. You killed every fucking possibility we had."
That struck a chord. I watched the confidence drain from his face, leaving him looking smaller—more like the seventeen-year-old boy I'd met in high school. We had never been friends, not really. We were just two people who always seemed to be vibrating at the same frequency of loneliness. Back then, he'd told me about his mother—how she could disappear for days and call it "parenting," and how he'd learned that showing need was the fastest way to make people leave. I had listened, but that was my mistake. Zack always confused being heard with emotional ownership.
"You think I don't know I hurt you?" he asked quietly. "I think you know," I replied. "I just don't think you give a damn about the impact." He took a step closer. Al immediately shifted, moving slightly in front of me. "Relax," Zack said, not even glancing at Al. "I'm not going to touch her." He turned his eyes back to mine. "Look at me."
I did. He looked tired—not "romantic-movie" tired, but unstable, like he'd been living on caffeine and regret. "I can't lose you," he whispered. "You already did." "I'm not done fighting for this," he insisted. "I am."
And then he dropped. Not a dramatic collapse, but a sudden, heavy thud. He fell to his knees on the asphalt in front of my car. My heart jumped in my chest. "What the hell are you doing? Get up," I whispered, mortified. "I'm done pretending I have pride," he said hoarsely. People were definitely staring now. I could feel the heat rising to my face. "This is pathetic, Zack."
"Maybe I am," he admitted. That actually caught me off guard; ego-driven men rarely admit to being pathetic. "You want honesty? I cheated because I panicked." I blinked. "Panicked?" "Yes. You were becoming too independent. You didn't need me anymore, and I felt replaceable. She made me feel wanted."
There it was. It wasn't about love or passion; it was a desperate grab for validation from a man terrified of abandonment. "My mother called," he said suddenly, his voice cracking. "She's not doing well. She's sick, and she finally reached out." He studied my face, looking for the old version of me—the one who would have reached out to comfort him. I felt nothing but a dull sense of boredom. "That's not my problem, Zack. You can't use that as a leverage point."
"I'm not using it!" he said quickly. "I just… I don't know how to do this without you." "You're not a child anymore," I said. "You're an adult." "I feel like a child when it comes to her." His voice broke. It was uncomfortable to watch, but I kept my expression neutral. "You were the only person who made me feel like I wasn't disposable."
I stayed silent. I knew exactly where this was going. "I loved you," he said. "Again—not my problem. I am not responsible for fixing what your mother broke." The words hit him like a physical blow. I saw the wince. Good. He needed to feel the weight of the bridge he'd burned.
"You're softer than this," he said quietly. The guilt strategy. I almost smiled. "I am soft, Zack. I just stopped being soft for people who hurt me."
He closed his eyes, looking as though he were losing something in real-time. I was exhausted. I just wanted to go home, put on some music, and forget he existed. "This is taking too long," I said. "I'm leaving." "Okay," he said, desperate. "Okay. I'll go. But just once—listen to me, one last time, without judging. After that, I'll stop showing up. I'll leave you alone."
I looked at him, truly looked at him. I was so tired of the spectacle. I just wanted the harassment to end. "One conversation," I repeated. "And it is not about us getting back together." He nodded frantically. "Okay. Just a talk." "Now get off the ground."
He stood slowly, brushing the dust off his knees. For the first time, he looked embarrassed. I unlocked my car and gave him one final look before sliding into the driver's seat. "You can't lean on my car anymore," I said firmly. "And you can't lean on me, either."
I started the engine and backed out. As I drove away, I caught him in the rearview mirror. He wasn't kneeling anymore, just standing there—a lone figure in an empty stall. For a second, he looked like he realized he'd lost. But I knew him well enough to know he wasn't done yet.