It takes a second for it to register.
Me?
I don’t talk in class. I don’t stay back. I don’t join conversations. I leave the moment the lecture ends, every single time.
I’ve made sure of that.
So why..?
“Are you sure?” The question slips out before I can catch it. My fingers tighten slightly around the strap of my bag. “I mean—are you sure you want to take me?” My gaze flickers between them, searching for hesitation, for the moment they take it back.
They look at each other, confused by the question. “Yeah,” the tall one says right away.
“Of course,” the girl with the nose ring adds, her tone light, as if the answer should have been obvious.
My chest loosens, just a little. A tight pull I hadn’t noticed loosens enough for me to feel it. It’s the same feeling I get at Maeve’s place—that sense that I’m allowed to be there, that I don’t have to justify my presence.
That I can just exist in the space.
“Okay,” I say. It comes out softer than I expect, almost startled. “I’d like to.” That surprises me more than anything else.
Because I mean it.
“Great,” the third girl finally says, already pulling out her phone. “We’ll text you the details.”
They start heading toward the door, falling back into their own conversation, talking over each other about showtimes and snacks and who’s bringing what.
But the girl who spoke first lingers for a second. “It’ll be nice to finally hang out,” she says, glancing back at me. “You always leave right after class.” Her smile tilts, a little uneven, but warm. “So this’ll be fun.”
My mouth curves, real and unforced. “Yeah,” I say. The word comes easier now. Lighter. “It will be.”
She nods once, satisfied, and heads after the others.
I stand there for a moment after they leave. Then I finish packing. Slower than usual. I zip my bag. Adjust the strap over my shoulder. Look around the room without rushing to escape it.
Fun.
I walk out last, the word still sitting with me, unfamiliar and new.
The final shock almost knocks me off balance.
I’ve been coming here long enough that Maeve’s parents’ house no longer feels unfamiliar.
I know the step near the top of the staircase that creaks if you put your weight on the edge. I know the kitchen cupboard that sticks unless you lift it slightly before pulling. I know Maeve’s dad hums the same off-key tune while chopping vegetables, and that her mom hears it every time, even when she pretends she doesn’t, a private smile tugging at her mouth.
I know which chair at the table is mine.
I know that Maeve’s mom will cut the bread unevenly, apologize every single time, and then laugh when no one cares. I know Maeve’s dad will reach over at some point and refill my water before I even realize it’s low.
And I know, with absolute clarity, that I’m not allowed to work here.
It doesn’t matter how often I offer. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been part of this space. If I stand up to clear a plate, someone steps in, takes it from my hands, and guides me back to my seat.
“Sit.”
Always the same word.
Always kind.
