Chapter 3

The next morning, my phone remained silent. The single question mark I' d sent to Jake sat there, unanswered, a stark reminder of his complete and utter indifference. My heart ached with a dull, persistent pain.

The producers, ever eager for drama, announced the day's activity: a beach volleyball tournament. My stomach twisted. The beach was our place. We' d spent countless summer afternoons on the sand, him teaching me how to serve, our laughter mixing with the sound of the waves. Maybe, just maybe, this was a sign. A chance to be near him, to remind him of the good times.

By some cruel twist of fate, or perhaps a deliberate move by the producers, Jake and I were assigned to the same team. A tiny, treacherous spark of hope ignited within me. But it was extinguished almost immediately.

"Don't worry, Chloe," I overheard Jake say to her as we gathered on the sand. "I'll make sure we win the prize." The prize was a private, romantic dinner cruise. He was promising it to her, right in front of me.

The game started. The sun beat down, and the sand was hot beneath my feet. I tried to play, to recapture the easy rhythm we once had.

"Remember that time at Santa Monica?" I called out to him as I set the ball. "You tried to teach me that spike, and I ended up hitting you in the face?"

I was hoping for a smile, a flicker of recognition. I got nothing. He just moved into position, his face a stony mask, and perfectly spiked the ball over the net. He didn't even look at me. It was like I was talking to a wall. Our past, our shared memories, meant nothing to him.

The game became a blur of me desperately trying to cover our side of the court while Jake stood by, a silent, powerful observer. He only moved when the ball came directly to him, executing each play with cold, detached precision. He wasn't playing with me, he was playing around me. I was just an obstacle on his court.

We were at match point. The other team served, a high, powerful arc heading straight for the back corner of our court. It was my play. I lunged, my body straining, my eyes fixed on the ball. I managed to get a hand on it, sending it back over the net, but my momentum carried me forward and my ankle twisted awkwardly in the soft sand.

A sharp, searing pain shot up my leg. I cried out, collapsing onto the court.

The game stopped. People rushed over. Through a haze of pain, I looked for Jake. He was standing on his side of the court, watching me with that same unnerving calm. He hadn't moved a muscle.

A medic helped me to a chair on the sidelines. "It looks like a sprain," he said gently, wrapping my ankle in ice.

Our team won the point, and therefore the game, thanks to my last desperate save. According to the rules, the winning team got to choose their date for the dinner cruise. My heart, despite everything, fluttered with a foolish hope.

Jake walked over to me, his shadow falling over me. I looked up at him, my eyes pleading.

"I won't be going on a date with you," he said, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't acknowledge my injury. He just delivered his verdict.

Then, he turned and walked directly over to Chloe, who was waiting with a smug smile. He took her hand, and together, they walked away, leaving me sitting there with a throbbing ankle and a shattered heart. The physical pain was nothing compared to the agony of his rejection. I watched them go, their figures shrinking against the vastness of the ocean, until they were just two specks in the distance. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I had already lost.