Tristan meets my gaze one, last time, and then reaches out to pluck a tear from my cheek, bringing it to his lips for a lick, reveling in the taste of my pain. The knife of his betrayal cut close, but it didn’t hit its target. I might be bleeding, but I’m not dead, not yet. “I’ve already enrolled in my classes.” The courtyard is silent, watching this moment unfold in all its horrible glory. There’s not a person there that expects me to stand up for myself, to raise my chin in defiance. No, they thought I would crumble. Maybe they hoped that, like the girl in my essay, I’d run away and
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