Malia Hale.

Malia Hale.

That's not her, can't be her. She's Malia Tate.

Malia Tate.

But there's her name on the paper, on the paper from Stiles's jacket, but with a different name tacked on the end. A name that cannot be her name, but still is.

Hale.

Malia Hale.

Malia Tate.

Hale.

Oh god, no.

Hale.

It can't be.

Tate.

No, no, no.

Malia Hale.

She traces her fingers over the new sequences of letters, the paper smooth and deceiving under her fingertips. She wishes she could rub the ink off, make the words disappear. Make the truth go away and put her heart back together again.

She knows she can't.

"Are you alright?"

Of course she's not. Why would she be?

He lied, he lied, he lied.

Her heart's chipping away with every word he says. He needs to stop talking. He really needs to stop talking.

The paper was in the jacket he gave her, he put it there. He had to know she'd find it.

He had to know.

"Malia?"

A hand on her shoulder.

He lied, he lied, he lied.

He doesn't get to touch her.

He lied, he lied, he lied.

She pulls his hand off and gives it back to him. She almost forgives him when she sees his face.

No, no, no.

Her heart's already broken, she can deal.

She drops the offending list and looks away from him. She stands up and walks out of the vault, what's left of her heart dropping into her stomach in broken pieces.

She doesn't look back.

He lied, he lid, he lied.