I stand, indignant. “That’s not true,” I protest.

“Fine. The majority are,” he fires back. “You think I have a shot of getting in to Brown or Columbia or Georgetown?”

“You could try—”

“You don’t understand,” he says, a new desperation awakening in his voice under the anger. He tears off his scarf and flings his coat on the dresser. “I don’t want to try. I don’t want to go to those schools. I want to go to a school with good parties and good sports. I want to tailgate with my friends before football games. I want to meet people in my classes who care about the things I care about. I want to have enough free time to visit you. But you don’t respect what other people want unless it lines up with your priorities.”

“I never said you couldn’t go to a school like that,” I argue, my face heating. It’s unbelievable. I tried countless times to get him to open up about what kind of future he wants, to describe to me his hopes and his horizons. “I asked you if you wanted to come on this trip, and you told me you did. If you had a problem with the itinerary, if you wanted to add schools, you should’ve said something. You should’ve told me what you wanted out of college. But you didn’t. You didn’t give me the chance to respect your priorities.”

Matt’s eyes narrow. “Right,” he says, clipping the word. “It’s all my fault.”

“Fault?” I repeat. I can feel the argument spinning out of control, car wheels skidding on black ice. “I don’t even understand what the problem is. You’ve known since the day we started dating that my dream was one of these schools. Remember? We talked about it on our second date when we walked to the bookstore after dinner and I found that college guide—”

“Don’t do that,” he cuts me off. “Don’t use your memory against me like ammunition. I can’t compete.”

“It’s not ammunition. It’s who I am,” I reply, stung. I take a breath, hoping to slow my racing heart. Matt’s chest is heaving too, and I want nothing more than to find our way back to an hour ago. “Look,” I say finally. “I just meant I’ve never made my aspirations a secret. I would hope that you, my boyfriend, would know how important college is to me.” My vision blurs, and a tear slips down my cheek. I wipe my eyes hurriedly, not entirely knowing why I’m crying. I drop my gaze to the floor.

It’s a long moment before Matt replies. When he does, his voice is different.

“You’re right,” he says softly. “You didn’t mislead me about anything. I’ve known all along what you wanted. I just—” His voice breaks, and I look up to find he’s crying. He thumbs away his tears, but they keep coming.

It’s heartbreaking, jarring and wrong, watching Matt cry. Tall, broad-shouldered Matt. Compassionate Matt. Life-of-the-party Matt. His shoulders quake, and the thought crashes through me, consuming everything, there is nothing that hurts worse than this. Than the person you love falling to pieces in front of you.

“I didn’t know what it would feel like,” he continues. “Seeing you tour these schools, knowing you’re looking forward to a future that could be far from me. You have one foot out the door. It’s like what we have . . .” He pauses, as if he’s fighting the pain of what he’s going to say next. “What we had doesn’t even matter.”

I cross the room. Taking his hands, I look up into his red-rimmed eyes. “It matters,” I say with the force of a year of weekend coffees and study dates, good-morning texts and kisses good night. “It’s always mattered.”

I hiccup on the final word, and with a twisting breath I realize how hard I’m crying. There’s finality in my sobs now, the unstoppable momentum of this horrible conversation collapsing into its inescapable end.

Matt wraps me in his arms, and I cry onto his shoulder—his achingly familiar shoulder. It makes everything worse and yet is the only comfort I could want right now.

“We don’t want the same things, do we?” he asks finally.

I don’t answer. I don’t know how to answer. I don’t know how to do this. I’m holding the map and unable to find the destination. The helplessness overwhelms me, the impossible reality of this moment.

For the first time, I want to put off the future. I want to stay in the present. I want Matt’s arms around me, his heart beating against mine. If I don’t think about tomorrow, then right now, with him, is enough. But his question hangs in the air perilously, waiting to crash down on us.

“We don’t,” I say when I can’t hold on to the moment any longer.

He hugs me tighter, and I bunch my hands in his shirt, knowing this is it. We both know. There are no dramatic declarations. No I’m breaking up with you or we’re over or I don’t love you anymore. We hold each other, and it’s the end of us.

“We could stay together until graduation,” I suggest weakly. We had plans for the rest of this year, plans I’ve daydreamed of and yearned for. Right now, they’re blurring out of focus, fading fast enough to frighten me. There was Valentine’s Day, prom, the senior trip to Lake Placid. I even have his Christmas gift wrapped and hidden in my closet—a Lord of the Rings DVD box set.

Then there are the bigger plans. The trip we talked about taking to Ireland when we had enough money, the first apartment we’d rent together, what type of dog we’d adopt.

We’ll never have those plans, but we could have this year.

He steps out of my arms. “You don’t want that,” he says. I begin to protest, but he continues. “You’re not the kind of girl who holds on to things that are already over. You’ll want to face tomorrow with a fresh start, ready for something new.”

I close my mouth. He’s right. It hurts how right he is, how well he knows me.

I don’t deny it. “I want you to have your perfect college experience,” I say instead. He was right. I could have tried harder to understand what he wanted. It’s too painful to admit, the thought tightening my throat. Between him and Fitz, I guess understanding other people’s priorities is something I’m working on. “I know you’ll find the girlfriend who wants to go to parties with you,” I go on, “who will stand at your side for everything that’s exciting to you.” I meet his eyes, finding his expression slightly disbelieving. I know the feeling. A year together, and it ends in a handful of minutes in a New York hotel room. “I’m just not her.”

“And I’m not the guy who’s going to take on the world with you,” he says. His tears have subsided, leaving his face wrecked.

“If it’s worth anything, I really wanted you to be.”

He smiles genuinely, sweet and sad. “Yeah, it’s worth something,” he says. “You know, I still think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and smarter than everyone I know.”