Page 43 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

EMILY

C ampus shifts with the season—green giving way to gold, gold to fire. By mid-September, the breeze carries that first bite of cold, and students start layering their hoodies over T-shirts, clutching coffee cups like anchors.

I walk the same paths every day: to class, to the library, to the bus stop, to nowhere. Leaves crunch beneath my boots, and I start to like the quiet. I start to crave it.

The texts from my mom come like clockwork.

Long blocks of over-explaining. Passive-aggressive updates. Photos of the backyard swing set she thinks I care about. I stop reading them after a while. Stop opening them altogether. One day, I hold down her contact and press mute .

No sound. No buzz. No reminder.

Just silence.

The occasional “I’m sorry” arrives through snail mail—printed on floral stationery with just enough faux elegance to feel performative. But I get the feeling they’re from Aidan’s staff and not her.

My mother has never spelled out the word your . She always writes UR , even in birthday cards. She hates writing anything longer than a paragraph by hand. Always has. She says pens make her fingers “cramp up.”

So no, I don’t buy the sudden surge of heartfelt effort. I don’t believe in her ability to change.

I’ve done that too many times before.

And every time, I’ve been wrong.

Sometimes—just for a second—I check my inbox.

Not for her.

Just to see if anyone else remembered I still exist.