Lacey
OMW
I type it out with shaking fingers, then let my phone clatter back onto the sink. I should get up. Wash my face. Change out of the hoodie—Troy's hoodie—that I've been wearing for 24 hours straight.
I don't move.
Twenty-seven minutes later, there's a knock at my door.
“It's open,” I call, my voice rough from disuse.
I hear the door creak open. Footsteps. Then Lacey's voice, uncertain. “Delilah?”
“In here.”
The bathroom door pushes open, and there's Lacey, in a bright yellow rain coat. Her eyes widen when she sees me, and for a moment, I see myself through her eyes—huddled on the bathroom floor, face blotchy, hair unwashed.
“Oh, honey.” Her voice is soft as she drops her purse and sinks down next to me. “What happened?”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Just a ragged breath that catches in my throat. Lacey doesn't push, just wraps an arm around my shoulders.
“It's okay,” she says. “Take your time.”
Another breath. “I fucked up.”
“With Troy?”
I nod, a fresh wave of tears threatening. “How did you know?”
She gives me a look. “Del, you're wearing a UMS Engineering hoodie that's like three sizes too big for you. You’ve basically been MIA all semester and whenever I asked you where you were, you were with him. I’m not a detective, but...”
I let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Right.”
“Want to tell me what happened?”
I do. I tell her everything—the initial partnership, the tension, the Thanksgiving visit. The messages from Brianna. The argument. The horrible, final text that's still sitting on my phone like a time bomb.
“I kept pushing him away,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “And I can't even explain why. It's like... it was going too well, you know? Like I could see it all just waiting to fall apart, so I had to break it first.”
Lacey sighs, rubbing my shoulder. “Oh, Del.”
“I know. I know it's stupid.”
“It's not stupid. It's you being scared.”
I look up at her, surprised by the simple assessment.
“Can I be honest with you?” she asks.
I nod, bracing myself.
“I love you. I have since freshman year when you lent me your notes after I was too hungover to go to class, and you didn't even judge me for it.” She shifts to face me more directly. “But you'veneverreally let me in. Not completely.”
The words sit heavy in my throat. “That's not?—”
“It is true,” she says gently. “After freshman year, when we stopped living together, I kept trying to keep that closeness.But it always felt like there was this wall. Like you decided the friendship had reached its limit.”
I stare at the floor, something heavy pressing on my chest. Because she's right.
