I check my phone obsessively all week, every notification making my heart leap in the hope that it’s him. Ant. But the screen stays disappointingly silent. I could message first—I know I could—but something inside me freezes every time my thumb hovers over his name. It’s that stupid, hopeful princess still living in my chest, the one who wants the prince to ride up, storm the tower, and carry her away. Except this princess is terrified. The last time she let herself believe in fairy tales, she ended up shattered on the floor. I can’t survive another round of that kind of pain. Not yet.

Friday afternoon finally arrives, and when my phone pings I almost drop it.