"I hate you." He looked at me for a long moment. Then, almost sadly, he smiled. "No." His voice was barely above a whisper. "You don't." Something inside me faltered. "You don't know that." "I think I do." "No, you don't." "I don't think you hate me at all." The sentence landed with terrifying precision. Because I couldn't answer it. Instead, I looked away. Toward the sea, toward the horizon. Anywhere but him. The silence stretched between us. I could hear my own heartbeat. "You don't know anything," I muttered. "I know enough." "You don't." He stepped closer. Not enough to corner me. Just enough that I could hear his breathing over the wind. "I know you haven't looked at me the way you look at people you hate."