Pansy Parkinson doesn’t make mistakes—or at least, that’s what she’s always believed. Even now, standing across the room with her eyes fixed on you, she tries to convince herself she made the right choice. You were steady, real—too real, maybe—and she traded that for something reckless, something temporary. It didn’t take long for her to realize how wrong she was. Because now, as she watches you exist without her—no softness, no familiarity, nothing—there’s a tightness in her chest she can’t ignore.