You trace the rim of your glass, watching the amber catch the low light, each flicker sharpening the weight in your chest. Melody lounges on the sofa, her smile easy, untroubled, like she’s talking about a weekend plan instead of the unraveling of the life you’d imagined together. “I think…once I’m settled in nursing, I want a bachelorette lifestyle,” she says, casual, almost airy, and the words hit harder than you expected. “Bachelorette…lifestyle?” Your voice catches. She tilts her head, a shrug that feels both innocent and deliberate. “Freedom. No strings. Fun. Independence. You know…living on my own terms.” You stare at her, trying to read the curve of her smile, the flicker in her eyes. “Why? I mean…what’s so appealing about that?” Her gaze softens, a shadow of something unspoken passing through. “I don’t know. I guess…part of me thought we wouldn’t make it this far. I thought I’d be out there—exploring, experiencing—on my own.” Her words scrape against the plans, the shared mornings and quiet routines, two years stacked with hope now feeling precarious. You feel your fingers tighten around the glass, the warmth of the liquid doing nothing to steady the cold that’s settling in your chest. “I just…don’t know if I can…” Your voice drops, unsteady. Melody leans closer, almost tender, yet untethered. “I care about us, I do. But I also need to feel free. I need to know I can choose myself without regrets.” Freedom. Independence. Fun. Words that once promised possibility now wedge themselves between you, cold and sharp. The hum of the fridge, the quiet of the room, even her soft breathing feels louder than her laughter. Tonight is not just a conversation. It is a crossroads. You feel it in the pit of your stomach, the tremor in your hands. Do you fight for the life you hoped to share, or step aside before the freedom she craves becomes a world you cannot enter?

I was finishing my margarita when you slid onto the bar stool beside me. A cold beer clinked in front of you; another margarita nudged toward me. My chest tightened, heat rushing to my ears. I jumped upright and stepped back. You blinked at me, eyebrows raised in curiosity. “Hey,” you said softly, casual, testing the space between us. “I… oh, hi,” I stammered, fingers curling around the edge of my glass. Before you could speak again, I twisted and bolted for the door, not catching your name. April’s laughter followed faintly, teasing, but I didn’t stop. A week later, at James’s birthday, I spotted you across the room. Music thumped, the scent of spilled beer and cake thick in the air. My stomach knotted, chest tightening as my gaze collided with yours. I froze, then edged toward the crowd, pressing myself against a wall, trying to disappear. “Felicia,” you said, voice carrying across the room. “Looks like we meet again.” I whispered, barely audible, “Uh… hi,” and moved further back, weaving between people, shoulders hunched, pulse loud in my ears. My friends nudged me, laughing, encouraging, but I slipped past, breath shallow, heart hammering. Over the next month, avoiding you became a game: ducking, sidestepping, disappearing whenever our paths crossed. Each encounter left my chest tight, palms fidgeting at my sleeves. I told myself it wasn’t brokenness—just fear, low self-esteem, and shy. Then, a week later, came the closet. My friends’ laughter echoed down the hall, shoving and giggling as they trapped us together. My fingers twisted the hem of my shirt, chest tight, throat dry. You tilted your head, smiling gently. “Finally,” you said softly. “Now we can talk.” “Why… why are you… here?” I whispered, voice trembling. “Because,” you said, leaning slightly closer, “I’ve been trying to find you.” For the first time in weeks, I didn’t run. I just stood there, frozen, terrified, and yet aware that someone sees me.

You can’t stop watching Trish in class. Her auburn hair snakes over her shoulder as she flips a page, the tiniest wrinkle of her nose betraying annoyance whenever your voice cuts through the lecture. It isn’t attraction, not exactly—not yet—but there’s something magnetic in the precision of her scorn, a rhythm to her disapproval that lodges itself in your chest. She shifts in her seat, deliberately angling away, arms crossed, every inch a barrier. You notice the subtle flick of her pen against her notebook, punctuating your earlier comments as if to mark them worthless. When your eyes meet, even for a fraction of a second, she tilts her head, lips pressed tight, and the message is clear: You are invisible, and you are unbearable. And still, your gaze lingers. By Thursday, you’ve memorized the way she arranges her textbooks, how she taps her fingers against the desk when the professor drones on about Dickens, the faint scent of her coffee blending with the dust of old pages. You try to focus, jotting notes with trembling hands, but each glance at her is a pull you cannot resist. After class, you linger by the door, words forming and dissolving in your throat. She brushes past, shoulder grazing yours with deliberate indifference. Your stomach tightens, a mix of irritation and something more—something sharp and alive. Outside, the crisp autumn air stings, and you inhale the smell of fallen leaves, but your mind is still trapped in the classroom, in the quiet war between fascination and disdain. You wonder when it became so impossible to look away, how someone so clearly uninterested could unravel you so completely. And yet, despite every warning etched in her expression, despite every ounce of her disapproval, you can’t help but hope—against logic, against reason—that the friction between you might someday ignite into something else entirely.

You had agreed to help Lena move her dresser, but the lie you whispered to Sophia at dinner still lingered like bitter aftertaste: “I’ll be at work a little late.” It was a tiny untruth, almost laughable—only a favor for a coworker—but tiny cracks can splinter under the wrong gaze. By the time you hefted the dresser into Lena’s apartment, the scent of polished wood mingled with faint vanilla and warm, folded laundry. Then you saw it: drawers packed tight with nightgowns, delicate silk and lace spilling over themselves like whispered secrets. “Oh,” Lena said, reading your surprise. “I sell them online. Side hustle.” Her smile was hesitant, almost shy, but curiosity tugged at you. “Could… could I get one for my wife?” you asked, and she nodded, promising a catalog of styles. Only a small favor, yet your stomach knotted anyway. You left, exhausted, unaware that across the street at the laundromat, Maya had taken photos of you leaving Lena’s apartment—and sent them directly to Sophia. The front door closes, and the air changes—thick, tense. Sophia stands rigid, arms crossed, eyes sharp, voice slicing. “You were at a woman’s house.” Each word lands like iron in your chest. You fumble for your phone, show her the texts, the pictures, the thread—but the screen floods with Lena’s professional nightgown photos, arriving like timed daggers. Her jaw tightens, her breath shallow, and judgment hardens in the corners of her eyes. “Are you going to divorce me?” Your voice is small, almost pleading, chest tight, hands trembling. She doesn’t answer immediately. Finally, a whisper: “I’m staying… for the kids.” But the flicker in her gaze—the quiet longing for freedom, the subtle distance no words can erase—speaks louder than any protest. The house shrinks, walls pressing inward, your heart hammering, and you realize that betrayal often isn’t about what happens—it’s about what she believes has happened.

You match with her out of curiosity more than hope. Valley—no last name—her bio reads like a curated dare: “Pre-law. Gym rat. Sushi addict. Fluent in French and sarcasm.” The photos gleam—yacht deck, champagne glass, that look of practiced boredom. You message her something casual, teasing, and safe. She replies: “Don’t try, boy.” You laugh, fingers hovering. “Didn’t realize trying was against the rules.” “Not rules,” she answers. “Standards.” She doesn’t block you. You can almost imagine the tone behind the words—amused, dismissive, each sentence polished to blind. You ask what she studies. She says, “People. Especially the ones who think they can charm me.” The cruelty’s deliberate, almost elegant, but something flickers beneath it, like she’s rehearsed this scene too many times. You tell her so. “Don’t psychoanalyze me,” she snaps. “You’ll drown in the shallow end.” “Maybe that’s where you’re standing,” you type back. The typing bubble vanishes, returns. You picture her leaning back in some eucalyptus-scented dorm, thumb poised, jaw tight. Then: “You’re less boring than most.” It’s not affection. It’s permission. The conversation drifts—fragments of classes, travel, then silence. You sense her deciding, moment to moment, whether you deserve another word. Beneath her confidence, something flickers—hesitation, maybe, or recognition. When she finally sends, “You’d hate me in real life,” it lands heavier than it should. You reply, “You don’t sound so sure.” A minute. Then: “Good. You’re paying attention.” You close the app, unsettled. It isn’t infatuation. It’s curiosity sharpened to a point. Her words linger, sharp and precise, and in your mind they carry the rhythm, the cadence, the impossible balance of charm and threat—like she’s daring you to see her, really see her, before she decides she doesn’t want to be seen. That’s her power. And maybe her problem.

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.

You sink onto the edge of the sofa, the fabric scratching at your palms, the air thick and still. Jennifer stands a few feet away, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours like she’s measuring something invisible. “I’ve been thinking,” she says slowly, voice low, deliberate. “I don’t like your friends. Any of them. Especially the women.” Your throat tightens. “All of them?” “Yes. All.” She steps closer. Her heels click softly on the hardwood, a rhythm that feels like a countdown. She hands you your phone. The screen glows, mocking. Every contact—gone. “I took care of it. Social media too. You don’t need them.” You stare at the blank slate. “Jennifer… this isn’t normal.” She tilts her head, a faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Normal?” Her laugh is a sharp whisper. “We’ve been married eighteen months. I think it’s time we get rid of the things that don’t matter.” You trace the empty contact list with a trembling thumb, the loss of every familiar face settling into your chest like lead. “Everyone? Even—” “Yes. Everyone who isn’t here. That’s all you need.” A shiver runs down your spine. You hear the hum of the refrigerator, the distant drone of traffic—sounds you’ll never share with anyone else now. “But… what about choice? Connection? Memories?” “You have me,” she interrupts softly, almost tenderly. “And that’s enough. Don’t you want enough?” The word “enough” lands with a strange, crushing weight. You want to argue, to flinch, to push back—but your voice is caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. “I… I guess that’s enough,” you say finally, voice ragged. Her hand finds yours. Warm. Firm. Certain. You feel the pulse, the heat, the slow exhale of inevitability. The world outside—calls, texts, laughter—is gone. And yet, in that hollow quiet, there’s a clarity that stings: maybe it’s enough. Maybe it isn’t. And for now, there’s only her. And the silence.

You watch Tiffany across the room, sunlight catching her hair in streaks of gold that make your chest tighten. She laughs at something Jason said, and it’s a sound that digs under your skin, pulling at a part of you you swore you’d buried. You shift your weight, pretending to examine the wine list, but the heat of her glance—brief, accidental, electric—leaves your fingers trembling slightly against the glass. “She always notices the little things,” Jason says, nudging you lightly, oblivious. You nod, forcing a neutral smile, but inside, your thoughts are a riot: She notices me. She could notice me. Why does this feel like betrayal? Your jaw clenches; you swallow the dry taste of want curling at your tongue. Tiffany drifts closer, brushing past your arm as she reaches for the canapé tray. The contact is casual, but your heart stutters anyway, and you feel a faint warmth lingering on your skin long after she’s gone. Her eyes flick toward yours, curiosity—and something unspoken—quivering in the depths. “You okay?” she asks, voice light but probing, almost imperceptibly caring. “Yeah,” you manage, voice tight, barely above a whisper, forcing your hands to grip the stem of your glass until your knuckles blanch. Her smile lingers, delicate, teasing, a small promise that the room is no longer safe for your composure. Every laugh, every brush of skin, becomes a battlefield. You know one slip—one fleeting surrender—could unravel everything Jason trusts, yet the ache in your chest argues that some wants, devastating as they are, refuse to be contained.

You’re leaning against the counter, staring at the steam curling from your untouched coffee, when the door clicks. Your chest tightens before you even look. And there she is—Bethany. Hair tied in a messy knot, eyes shadowed by exhaustion and shame, a suitcase dragging quietly behind her. Your stomach knots at the curve of her belly, the promise of another life, another responsibility, tucked beneath her ribs. Bruises bloom like inked confessions across her arms, some fresh, some whispered remnants of old mistakes. “Please,” she breathes, voice brittle and trembling. “Please… take me back.” She steps inside without permission, the faint scent of rain clinging to her, mingling with something darker—fear, regret, survival. You close the small space between you, heart pounding against a ribcage that wants to both protect and resist. “Beth… what happened?” The words feel inadequate, but you can’t stop them. Her lips quiver. “I… I don’t know. I ran. I hid. I hurt… everyone, including you. I—” She swallows, gaze flicking to the floor, then back. “I can’t undo the past. But I want to try. For me, for the baby, for us.” You want to step forward, to pull her in, but caution roots you. Every bruise, every apology, every memory of her leaving twists inside you like a knot. You study her: the woman you loved, the stranger who’s survived storms you couldn’t imagine. “Bethany…” Your voice trembles, taut with longing and fear. “I… I don’t know if I can.” Her trembling hands brush yours, desperate, pleading. “Please,” she whispers, and the world tilts, waiting for your answer. The choice is entirely yours.

There’s a peculiar quiet that exists only after midnight—too dark for optimism, too awake for denial. It’s in that hour that my phone becomes a judge of my weaknesses. I lie there, face aglow in the cold light of the screen, pretending I'm above all this cheap craving for validation. It’s a laughable delusion. Because the truth is: I am terrified of wanting to be wanted. Wanting invites disappointment, and I have already collected more than any person deserves. I scroll through profiles like an archeologist sifting through ruins—evidence of lives that look intact from a distance but crumble if you inspect too closely. Everyone smiles like happiness is easy. Everyone promises adventure. No one mentions how it feels to be left behind by someone who swore they understood you. Every match feels like a resurrection of hope I’ve tried to bury. I craft messages that walk the tightrope between aloof and eager. I wait for responses that may never come. When they do, the dopamine surge feels like a betrayal of my own intelligence. I once loved someone so completely that I didn’t see myself disappearing until I was already gone. Nights like this, I wonder if I’m searching for a face that resembles his, or for a future that doesn’t ache. Either would explain why I can’t stay away from these digital rituals. Eventually, my battery threatens death, and I toss the phone aside like it’s the one who chased me. I promise myself that tomorrow I’ll delete everything again. Tomorrow I’ll be stronger. Tomorrow, I will not swipe. But tonight, hope—foolish, stubborn hope—still whispers: What if?

I always pretended I could handle it—watching you date other girls like it was just part of the lease agreement. We split the bills, argued about dishes, mocked bad reality TV. Nothing more. That was the rule I made so I could stand being near you. But then there was that night. A stupid rom-com you claimed was “for the cultural experience,” a bottle of wine breathing on the coffee table, your shoulder resting just a breath too close to mine. The heroine confessed her love, trembling. You laughed, but something flickered across your face—uncertainty, longing, or maybe just the wine. And then you kissed me. Soft. Searching. Like you were asking a question you were afraid to hear answered. I felt the world tilt. In the morning, sunlight sliced through the blinds, too bright, too honest. You stretched, yawned, and gave me that easy grin. “What did we even watch?” you said, rubbing the back of your neck. A joke. A reset. A denial so casual it stung more than rejection. And then came Stacy. With her bracelets and apple-sweet perfume. You invited her over, guiding her to our couch, arm draped comfortably around her shoulders while you asked if I wanted to join. When I shut my bedroom door, you knocked, genuinely confused. “Did I do something?” you asked. Maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t. Maybe you remember every second of that kiss. Tonight, I stand in the doorway, keys in my shaking hand. “I think I need to move out,” I say. Your face falls—guilt? surprise? something else? “Why?” Because once was enough to make me hope. And hope is the thing that hurts.

You hear her before you see her—heels tapping a precise rhythm against the cracked pavement, carrying a confidence you once envied. When Kate steps onto the porch, the years collapse like paper in water. Her eyes take you in slowly, scanning every detail, every line that marks the life you’ve “settled” into. There’s warmth there, yes, but threaded with something harder—disappointment, maybe, or quiet disbelief. “You’re… still here,” she says, voice soft but edged. She folds into the space beside you, effortless, like she’s always belonged. You force a laugh, the sound brittle, betraying the tug of memory—the reckless laughter, the late-night plans, the promises you thought were infinite. “And you?” you ask, testing the waters. “Still chasing… whatever it was?” She studies you, head tilted, eyes calculating. “I expected more from you,” she says finally, not cruelly, not aggressively—just as a matter of fact. “I imagined you… bigger than this little corner of the world. Stronger, louder, sharper.” Her gaze softens, almost mournful. “It’s strange, seeing you again. You’re… admirable, but also… diminished. Somehow.” You swallow, tasting the metallic sting of regret. “Maybe I just… needed something quieter,” you murmur, wishing it sounded like peace, not surrender. Kate smiles then, slow and precise, the kind of smile that forgives nothing. “Quiet,” she echoes, voice almost musical, and steps back, letting a silence bloom between you. It’s the silence of choices made, of potential unfulfilled. She’s here to reconnect… or to remind you, with gentle cruelty, of the life you never quite became. The porch feels smaller now. The night feels heavier. And the question she leaves behind hangs in the air, sharp and unresolved: did she come back for you, or for the echo of who you might have been?

I thought I’d enjoy the quiet. Three weeks alone, no hovering parents, no guilt for skipping the Mediterranean cruise that makes my stomach twist the moment a boat rocks. “Enjoy the house,” Mom said. “You deserve the rest.” I smiled, waved them off, and meant it. The first night was fine—wine, a bad movie, my phone glowing beside me. But by the third, the house began to sound… different. Every creak lingered a fraction too long. The vents whispered in patterns almost like words. I told myself, old houses talk, yet I turned the TV louder than necessary, trying to drown out my imagination. On the fifth night, the refrigerator hummed—a low, steady pulse like someone holding their breath. I froze, spoon midair. “Stop it,” I whispered to the empty kitchen. The hum seemed to deepen, rhythmic, deliberate, human. I pictured a crouched figure behind the wall, face pressed close, breathing slow. “Okay,” I said aloud, voice cracking on the second word. I crept to the kitchen, heart hammering in my ears. I yanked open the fridge. Silence. Just cold air, the faint tang of citrus. But the stillness wasn’t relief—it was waiting. Every reflection in the window trembled as if alive. Footsteps echoed somewhere down the hall, slow, deliberate, impossibly close. My own heartbeat answered them, erratic. Keys slipped from shaking fingers. I left them. The front door slammed behind me, frame shuddering. Outside, the night air hit raw against my skin. I ran until the house was a dark silhouette in the distance, its hum fading, yet somehow still there—watching, breathing, waiting.

At 2:37 AM, Kalie’s knock rattles the doorframe, uneven, almost desperate. You open it to find her swaying, coat wrapped tight, hair loose against her cheeks, eyes red but defiant. “I—” she starts, then bites her lip, shoving her hands into the pockets of her coat. “I couldn’t stay… not another second. I had to get out.” “Come in,” you say, voice low, steady. She collapses onto the couch, dragging her coat behind her, shoulders trembling. “It’s like… no matter what I do, it all just… crashes,” she whispers, twisting the hem of her sweater. “I keep hoping this time will be different, but it never is.” “You’ve always cared too much,” you say, sliding a blanket over her shoulders, letting your hand rest lightly on hers. “And that’s not a flaw.” She laughs, sharp, bitter. “Too much, too intense… too something. I keep thinking it’ll matter. But it doesn’t.” “It matters to me,” you murmur. “Every bit of it.” Her eyes flick to yours, glimmering with uncertainty. “Why do you always stay? Even after everything? Don’t you get tired?” “Not for you,” you say softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Not yet.” She bites her lip, hesitates, then whispers, “I don’t know if I want to be brave… or just reckless again.” Minutes pass in the quiet—the faint hum of the street outside, her shallow breaths, the small weight of her hand inching toward yours. Time stretches; the room feels suspended, heavy with unspoken questions, fragile trust, and possibilities. Finally, she shifts slightly, looking at you, waiting for something—an offer, a word, a touch. And in the pre-dawn hours, after more than half an hour of whispered fears and quiet presence, nothing is resolved, yet everything is possible.

The group chat’s blowing up again. “Friends’ weekend—who’s in?” “We need a headcount!” “Eryn? Don’t make us guilt you!” My thumb hovers over the delete button like it can erase not just my name, but the memory lodged in my chest. “Busy,” I type. “Totally swamped.” The truth? I can’t be near you without remembering that night—your face so close it nearly blurred the line between friendship and something dangerous, the almost-kiss that now presses against my ribs like a weight I can’t shrug off. I set the phone down and pace, letting the carpet catch the edge of my bare feet. My chest tightens, my fingers twitch, restless, as if they remember the brush of your hand I’ve been pretending never happened. Then Sara barges in, her grin merciless. “Stop lying to yourself. You love this weekend. Don’t pretend.” She drops a crumpled piece of paper on the counter. My name. On a ticket. Already bought. Already forcing me to confront what I’ve been running from. I pick it up, tracing the letters, feeling my pulse spike. “You knew I’d cave,” I murmur, voice tight, almost trembling. Sara shrugs, unreadable. “I always know.” I pace again, palms pressed to my temples, heart hammering. It’s not the weekend. It’s you. That almost-kiss, heavier than the ticket, heavier than any excuse I could invent. I want to flee. I want to stay. And more than anything, I want you to try again—even if admitting it might shatter me entirely.

The cabin hums with the slow, rhythmic breathing of sleeping bodies upstairs. The fire’s last embers pulse faintly, casting orange veins across the floorboards. You’re by the window—half-turned, half-hidden—steam curling from the mug in your hand. I tell myself to go, to leave you to your thoughts, but my legs refuse the command. The silence between us has weight, like a truth waiting to be named. “Can’t sleep?” you ask, voice low, unhurried. I shake my head, the motion small. “Didn’t try.” You smile, not the kind meant to comfort—more like you already know the reason. The window reflects us both: two ghosts suspended in the dim. Outside, snow drifts sideways, soft and endless, and I wonder if it’s the world itself trying to muffle what we’re not saying. I take a step closer, the floor creaking—a confession disguised as sound. You don’t turn, but your shoulders tense, then ease, as if you’ve just exhaled a secret. “Mel,” you whisper. My name sounds different in your mouth—gentler, dangerous in its honesty. “I should go,” I say, but the words don’t move me. “I know.” And still, neither of us does. The moment stretches thin as glass, trembling with everything we’ve tried not to want. The fire dies out completely, and we stay there, illuminated only by what we almost said.

I spot you across the lecture hall, head tilted back mid-laugh, sunlight skimming your jaw. The professor’s words dissolve into white noise. The low hum of air vents, the scratch of pens—all of it fades until it’s just you, the soundless shape of your grin pulling something loose inside me. I shouldn’t be looking. God knows, I shouldn’t. But there’s a kind of gravity in you that doesn’t obey reason. My pulse trips when you glance up, just for a second, and I swear you almost catch me. Almost. The door clicks open. The sound slices the spell clean through. Maddison strides in—hair sharp, stride sharper—like she owns the place. Which, in a way, she does. Every conversation bends around her orbit. Every boy looks. Every girl pretends not to. She drops into the seat beside you, one arm hooking over the back of your chair, claiming territory. My throat goes dry. You turn to her, smiling that same easy smile, and she leans in to whisper something in your ear. You laugh again—same sound, different meaning now. I feel the bruise she left on my ribs ghost beneath my shirt, dull and familiar, like a warning echoing through bone. I tell myself it’s nothing. But my body doesn’t believe me. “Hey,” my friend whispers beside me, nudging. “You okay?” I nod. Lie. Look down at my notebook, pen trembling against the page. Across the room, Maddison’s eyes flick up. Just once. Just long enough to find me. Her lips curve—not a smile, but a promise. And I realize she didn’t need to say a word. She already knows I never stopped looking— and that I never will.

The door slams hard enough to shake the frame. Leslie storms in—hair loose, eyes sharp, one heel clicking, the other already airborne. It skids under the coffee table, a casualty of another doomed night. You close your laptop, already smiling. “Again?” She drops onto the couch opposite you, breathless with indignation. “Halfway through dinner,” she says, “the guy asks if his mom can join us.” Her hands slice the air, incredulous. “And before I can say no, she’s right there—sitting down like it’s a damn family reunion.” You bite your cheek to hold it in, but the laugh slips out anyway. “What’s that now? Fifteenth? Sixteenth?” She glares, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Eighteenth.” You lose it. The sound fills the apartment, and for a heartbeat, she almost joins you. Then her shoulders sag. The fury drains away, leaving something smaller, quieter. You reach across the space, fingers brushing hers. “Hey. You’ll find someone. Someone good. Someone who doesn’t bring his mother to dinner.” Her laugh is soft, cracked around the edges. Then her eyes find yours, steady and unguarded. “I just wish I could find someone nice, like…” She trails off. Her voice falters; the room seems to still. The hum of the fridge becomes deafening. She blinks, the realization flashing through her like lightning. Her hand slips from yours. She straightens, too suddenly, and rises to her feet. “Like what?” you ask, low. “Nothing.” Her bedroom door closes with a soft click that feels final. You stare at it, heartbeat thrumming in your throat. The air still carries her perfume, faint and uncertain. And in the quiet that follows, you understand: whatever changed tonight won’t be undone by morning.

Jennifer all but drags you through the restaurant doors, breathless with pleading. “Please—just go with Amelia. Mathew’s cousin’s in town, and if she tags along, we can still go. You’ll like her, I promise.” You sigh, half amused, half curious, and let yourself be led to the table where Mathew waves, grinning. Amelia stands as you approach. Her smile isn’t practiced—it’s the kind that lives in the eyes first. “So you’re my reluctant date,” she teases, voice low and musical. Her handshake lingers just a second too long. Jennifer and Mathew settle opposite you, already laughing, and the night begins to find its rhythm. Conversation spins easily—stories of bad vacations, favorite movies, shared laughter that smooths the awkward edges. Candlelight wavers over Amelia’s face as she leans in to hear you better. Her shoulder brushes yours. Every small contact carries an almost imperceptible current, and you start timing your breath to hers without meaning to. Jennifer nudges Mathew under the table, but the look Amelia gives you says she’s noticed. Dessert arrives—a mess of spoons and tiramisu. Amelia offers you a bite, playful, deliberate. The taste is sweet and light, but your pulse is anything but calm. When her fingers graze yours reaching for the same plate, she doesn’t pull away right away. You don’t either. Outside, the night smells of rain and cold stone. Jennifer and Mathew walk ahead, still laughing, their voices fading into the sound of passing cars. Amelia lingers beside you, her breath fogging in the air. “I’m glad you came,” she murmurs. Her hand slips into yours, small and certain. And somehow, in the quiet between streetlights, you realize this favor for a friend has become the start of something neither of you expected—but neither wants to let go.

I stare out the window as the rain comes down, a steady pour that smears the quad into shifting watercolors. The kind I dread—the one that seeps under collars, chills fingers I didn’t realize were clammy—but at least there’s no thunder, no jagged lightning to rattle my thoughts. I have five minutes to make the ten-minute trek to the lecture hall, and this curtain of gray feels like a gauntlet I can’t quite face. You step up behind me. I sense your presence before I hear it—a familiar weight in the quiet—and glance over my shoulder. You snort at the rain, like it’s the punchline to some joke only you understand. “I so dislike getting wet,” I murmur, my voice a mix of irritation and helpless amusement. You chuckle, that effortless sound that always makes the back of my neck tingle. I scoff, turning back to the window, pretending the pull of your laugh isn’t dragging at something inside me. The droplets streak the glass, random yet inevitable, racing each other as if time itself were impatient. “You act like it’s personal,” you say, voice soft but teasing. “It is,” I whisper, though I don’t look at you. My fingers drum lightly on the sill, an unconscious rhythm of indecision. I feel the shift of your weight closer, close enough to notice the faint scent of rain on your jacket, but not close enough to make this comfortable. A silence stretches between us, filled only by the rain’s steady insistence. My heart beats a fraction faster—I tell myself it’s the weather, but I know better. Part of me wants to sprint for the lecture hall, and part wants to stay here, wrapped in the quiet, wet world that feels momentarily ours.