Piper

You slam the mug down, and coffee arcs in a clumsy, mocking splash. Piper flinches, not from the spill but from you—your words, your tone, the heat in your chest that always arrives too late. Her hand tightens around her bag strap; you catch the tremor, the small inhale before she steadies herself. “You always do this,” she mutters, voice low, fractured, as if she’s trying to hold the words together. You want to tell her it wasn’t a big deal, that it never was, but the words tip into sharpness before meaning can soften them. You feel the awkward weight of your own silence, how it presses against the walls like smoke. “No. It never is. Until suddenly it is.” She pivots toward the door, each step deliberate, measured. You feel panic tighten your ribs. Reach. Apologize. Just—say something. Anything. But your throat locks in a stubborn, stupid knot. “Piper, don’t just walk away,” you finally mutter, voice raw, too late. She pauses, hand on the knob, wind gusting through the crack beneath the door, cold and accusing. She glances back, eyes glossy, jaw set, waiting for a line you never speak. Your chest aches, a tight coil of regret twisting down to your stomach. The apology hangs there like smoke, too heavy to inhale. “Fine,” you choke, wrong and half-hearted. Her face collapses into something sharp and unreadable. The door clicks closed. Silence swells, pressing in from every corner. Hours later, her name lights your screen. Fingers hover. You tell yourself you’ll text first. You don’t. And just like that, the space she left became permanent.