"I'm sorry, sir, I need to go. I'm not feeling well," I say, raising my hand as soon as the professor allows me to speak.

"You can go, Ella," he gestures dismissively, barely paying attention but clearly hoping I don't cause a distraction.

"Thank you, sir," I mumble, already feeling my phone vibrating in my pocket. The second I step outside, I reject the incoming call and dial a number of my own.

"Hey, Jim. Are you home? I'm coming over," I say, not even waiting for a proper response. The only thing I need to hear is that he's there. I need to vent before I talk to Harry, before I lose my mind entirely. Maybe Jimmy will help me make sense of this. Maybe he'll explain it to me.

But on my way there, Brenda's words keep playing in my head on an endless, torturous loop.

"Tell him I say hi."
"He's very skilful."

Oh my God. The thought of Harry touching her, kissing her, being with her makes my stomach turn. I hate her, and he knows it. Why the hell would he do this to me? My phone won't stop ringing, only proving that whatever she hinted at wasn't just to mess with me—it was real.

I know we weren't together for almost a year, but how could this happen? I refuse to believe it was in Florence. No, that doesn't make sense. Which only leaves... here.

The break.

When he came home for his break.

While I was in France.

Fuck my life.

Or in this case, he fucked Brenda.

I want to scream. That smug smirk, that wink—she didn't just say it to stir the pot. She said it because she knew it would hurt me, because it actually happened.

Harry slept with her.

I can't even process it. The betrayal, the disgust, the absolute rage boiling inside me.

I know I have no right to be angry, technically. We weren't together. But logic means nothing when it feels like my heart is being wrung dry, over and over again. Why her? Out of everyone, why would he sleep with her?

It almost feels as bad as if he had slept with Charlie.

Oh my God.

Charlie.

He did say they when he mentioned the women from the past year.

No. No, no, no. He wouldn't. Would he?

I shake my head, trying to push the thought away, but it doesn't matter who else he's been with. The fact that it was Brenda is enough. He knew how much I hated her. He knew what she was like. He knew she'd shove it in my face if she ever had the chance. And now, here I am, standing outside Jimmy's building, trying to stop my hands from shaking.

I don't even wait for the lift. My patience is long gone. I take the stairs two at a time, practically sprinting to his door like I'm running for my life.

I knock furiously, my chest rising and falling in rapid breaths.

"Open up, Jim. Open up," I mutter under my breath, knocking again.

A few moments later, the beige door swings open, and Jimmy stands there, bleary-eyed, wearing only black boxers.

And just like that, the dam nearly breaks.

"Do you have any idea what time—?" Jimmy groans, rubbing his face.

"I don't care," I cut him off.

"—I slept?" he finishes, ignoring my interruption.

He takes one look at me—at the way I'm pacing, the way my chest rises and falls like I'm barely holding myself together—and his expression shifts. The annoyance fades.

"Come in," he sighs, stepping aside.

I don't wait for another invitation. I step inside as he shuts the door behind me, moving toward the coffee maker. He takes out the used filter, reaching for a fresh one from the top shelf, his movements sluggish but practiced.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice groggy, but I can hear the concern beneath it.

I don't answer right away. My fingers dig into my phone, my nails pressing against the screen where numerous unread messages and missed calls stare back at me.

"Your folks okay?" he tries again, turning to study me.

"Yeah," I say, barely above a whisper. My feet keep moving, pacing the small space like I'm trying to walk off the thoughts in my head.

Jimmy watches me, the coffee machine humming in the silence.

Then, in a tone that's far too knowing, he asks, "What did he do?"

I stop pacing. My fingers tighten around the phone. My throat feels thick, like something is lodged there.

"He fucked a girl I hate," I say bluntly, letting the words fall out of my mouth like poison.

Jimmy freezes. His hand, which had been reaching for a mug, stops mid-air. His brows knit together as he turns to face me fully.

"When?" he demands, his voice sharper now.

"Does it matter?" I snap, exasperated.

"Of course it does. If you weren't together, I can't exactly punch him for it," he reasons, his tone serious, like he's weighing the logistics of my heartbreak.

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. "Jimmy, he slept with someone I absolutely loathe. Do you get it?" I stress every syllable, trying to make him understand.

Jimmy scratches his chest lazily, his brain still catching up. "Charlie? I thought that ship had sailed."

"I don't know about Charlie," I admit, my stomach twisting at the very thought, "but I do know about Brenda."

Jimmy's face twists like I just told him the world is ending.

"Wait—are we talking about that bimbo he tapped when you were in France?" he asks, far too casually, like he's confirming the weather.

"Please don't say it like that, Jimmy," I choke out, the nausea creeping up my throat.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "She was all over him like a leech when he came to the club that night."

Something inside me snaps.

"So everyone knows he slept with her?" My voice is barely above a whisper, but it feels deafening.

Jimmy hesitates. "I don't know, Ella. I don't know about that. But you weren't together," he tries to reason, his voice softer now.

"He knew I hated her, Jimmy," I whisper, and that's when it happens—the break. The crack in my voice, the sting in my eyes, the warmth of tears spilling over before I can stop them.

"Ah, fuck," Jimmy mutters under his breath. "Please don't cry, Ella. I don't—shit, I don't know what to do when girls cry." He looks genuinely panicked now, but I don't care.

"Jimmy," I croak, but I don't know what else to say. I don't even know what I need to say.

"Come here," he sighs, pulling me into his arms, his grip warm and solid.

I let him hold me. I let my body shake against his, silent tears soaking into his sleep-warmed skin. I hate crying in front of people, but I don't have the strength to stop.

"Please, Ella," he murmurs. "Just... stop crying, okay?"

I nod, but the tears don't stop.

Jimmy sighs, pulling back. "Let me throw some clothes on, yeah?"

I nod again and release him.

As soon as he steps away, I lie back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. My tears fall silently to the sides, pooling in my ears. The weight in my chest is unbearable, pressing against my ribs like I might shatter beneath it.

Why can't I get a fucking break?

I hear Jimmy answering his phone from his bedroom, and I already know exactly who he's talking to.

"Yeah, she's here."
"Yes, she knows."
"No, I won't do that."
"Yes, she's crying."
"I don't know."
"Okay."
"Fine."

I don't need to hear the other end of the conversation to piece together what's being said. But the truth is, I don't want to talk to him right now. I don't have the energy to hear excuses or explanations that won't make me feel any less sick to my stomach.

Jimmy walks back into the kitchen and pours two cups of coffee, one for me and one for himself. But then, just as he's about to put the coffee pot back, I see him grab another mug from the cupboard. He sets it next to ours.

My brows furrow in confusion. I wipe my sleeve across my damp cheeks and sit up, only to get my answer a few seconds later when a topless blonde saunters out of his room, wearing nothing but a thong.

She doesn't even acknowledge me at first—just walks over to the sofa like she's searching for something. I blink in disbelief as I realize I've been sitting on a piece of black fabric. Her dress.

"Sorry," she mumbles, grabbing it, and I swear her tits are practically in my face.

"That's... okay," I manage, completely stunned.

She pulls the dress over her head, casually adjusts her impossibly large chest, and disappears back into Jimmy's room for a moment. I assume she's retrieving her bag because she re-emerges a few seconds later, fully dressed, flashing a satisfied smile in Jimmy's direction.

"I'm going, baby," she tells him.

Jimmy smirks. "See ya."

And just like that, she's gone. No lingering glances, no awkward goodbyes—nothing.

Hell. No.

Men are pigs. They are pigs, I tell you.

"Did that just happen?" I ask, my voice still laced with disbelief.

Jimmy looks at me blankly. "What?"

I gesture toward the door, expecting him to show at least some level of embarrassment, but he just shrugs.

"She didn't want coffee, so what's the problem?" he asks, completely serious.

I gape at him. "That is precisely why you don't see my point of view, Jimmy."

He frowns. "And what is your point of view, exactly?"

"You don't care about women. You sleep around, avoid commitment like the plague, never promise yourself to anyone because you're afraid of it," I accuse, my frustration spilling out with my words.

Jimmy's brows shoot up, and for the first time, he actually looks a little offended. "Whoa. Hold it there," he warns, his voice cool but firm. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" I challenge, arms crossing over my chest.

He sighs and gestures for me to sit down. "Listen, Ella. Just because I play dumb sometimes doesn't mean I am dumb. There's a difference between being afraid of commitment and just not wanting it. I'm not scared of it—I just haven't found someone who makes me want to commit."

I open my mouth, but he cuts me off.

"Harry found you," he continues, "and from what I've seen, he was faithful to you when you were together. Yeah, okay, maybe Belinda was a really shitty choice, but you don't see him calling her now, do you? You don't see him texting her or running back to her."

I stay silent, chewing on the inside of my cheek.

"And as for me?" Jimmy goes on, exhaling loudly. "The women I'm with—they know exactly who I am and what I want. So don't paint me as the bad guy here, because I'm not. You saw that girl—did she look like she didn't know what this was? Should I be crying and feeling objectified too?" He scoffs. "Come on, Ella."

I shake my head, more exhausted than angry now.

"You don't even know her name, do you?" I ask. "You just said girl."

Jimmy grins. "Okay, maybe I am a bit of a pig. Sue me." He shoves my coffee toward me.

I roll my eyes and take a sip. "It's Brenda, not Belinda, by the way."

"Same shit. Who the fuck cares about her?" he mutters, stretching his arms.

"It'll happen to you, you know," I say, watching him.

He cocks a brow. "What will?"

"You'll fall in love. And when you do, things will be different."

Jimmy smirks like he's about to say something cocky, but then his expression softens. He leans back, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "Yeah," he murmurs. "I know."

I hesitate before asking, "Have you ever been in love, Jimmy?"

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't hesitate. He just nods.

"A long time ago. Way before I met you," he says simply.

"Like... truly, deeply, madly?"

He nods again.

I study him for a moment. "Anyone I know?"

Jimmy finally looks at me, but instead of answering, he takes a long sip of his coffee. "Does it matter?"

His voice is quieter now, his usual bravado slipping just slightly.

I recognize the look in his eyes—the look of someone with a story buried so deep that they don't even know how to dig it up anymore.

I decide to let it go.

"I guess that answers my question," I say softly. "But I respect your desire to keep it to yourself."

Jimmy seems to appreciate that.

He clears his throat, standing up. "Harry loves you, Ella. You should forgive him for this stupid mistake."

I exhale slowly. "I don't know if I can."

Jimmy gives me a knowing look. "You will."

I shake my head, unwilling to say yes but unable to say no either.

"He panicked, you know," Jimmy adds, crossing his arms. "He's scared shitless. I could tell just by the way he was talking on the phone."

I glance down at my lap. "It's not funny, Jimmy."

"I know." But the way he smirks tells me he's still enjoying Harry's suffering, at least a little bit.

He stretches again, rubbing his eyes. "Let me change the sheets and take a shower. You need some sleep. A nap will do you good."

I nod, too drained to argue.

As he heads to his bedroom, I call after him, "Is the bed still on the top bunk, or have you resumed your old, normal ways?"

He laughs. "It's back."

I finish my coffee, rinse out the cups, and tidy up the flat just to keep myself doing something. But when I finally check my phone again, the notifications are overwhelming—more missed calls, more messages.

I sigh, my fingers hovering over the screen before finally typing a single text.

Please let me be.

Then, before I can second-guess myself, I switch the damn thing off.

Only last night, I was counting down the days until I could visit him.

And now? Now I just want as much distance as I can get.

"Come on, wear these," Jimmy says, tossing me a pair of pyjama shorts and a T-shirt. "You left them here once, and I kept them for days like these."

I change quickly in the bathroom, then crawl into bed beside him. The sheets are fresh, the scent of laundry soap oddly comforting.

As I rest my head against his chest, I whisper, "Thank you, Jimmy. You're a great friend."

"I'm the best," he jokes, his voice already thick with sleep.

I hesitate before asking one last question.

"Jimmy?"

"Yeah?" His eyes are closed now.

"Was it... Gemma?"

His breath hitches, just slightly. Then, slowly, his eyes open.

"Yeah," he whispers.

Then he closes them again.

"Let's sleep," he mutters, but I can feel his pulse quickening beneath my cheek.

"Okay," I whisper back.

And for the first time that night, my heart doesn't ache just for me.