“Yesterday? Maybe?”
“Shower. Now. Or I’m calling your mom.”
The threat works.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely recognize myself. My face is puffy from crying, my hair hasn’t been washed in days, and I’ve lost weight I couldn’t afford to lose. I look like what I am—someone who’s been gutted and hasn’t figured out how to function without the pieces that got carved out.
Maybe he saw what I was too stupid to see—that you’re so broken you’ll sabotage anything good rather than risk being real.
The memory of his voice, so cold and certain, makes me grip the sink. He didn’t yell at the end. He just stated it like fact. Like he’d finally diagnosed what was wrong with me.
And the thing is, I can’t argue. I did sabotage us. I did choose protection over trust. I did exactly what he accused me of.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in actual jeans and a sweater that doesn’t smell like despair, walking across campus with Riya. Spring is trying its best—students sprawl on blankets, pretending it’s warmer than it is, textbooks open but ignored.
“See?” Riya gestures broadly. “Sunlight. Fresh air. Human beings who aren’t made of code.”
“I prefer the code.”
“The code doesn’t love you back.”
“Neither does—” I stop, the words catching in my throat.
Neither does Ethan.
We’re passing the gym when I see them. Ethan and Freddie, emerging from the athletic complex. Ethan’s in basketball shorts and a worn t-shirt, hair damp with sweat. He’s laughing at something Freddie said, head thrown back, completely at ease.
My chest constricts.
He looks good. Happy. Like someone who hasn’t spent days rewriting the same code over and over, trying to debug feelings that won’t compile.
Ethan glances our way—maybe he feels my staring—and our eyes meet across thirty feet of sidewalk. His laughter dies. Freddie notices, says something I can’t hear. Ethan shakes his head, and they pivot toward the parking lot.
Away from me.
“He’s avoiding me,” I say, voice small.
“Or respecting the space he asked for.”
“He asked for time to think. It’s been over a week. How much thinking does one person need?”
“Maybe he’s scared too.”
I watch them disappear around the building.
“Come on,” Riya says gently. “Coffee. Carbs. Maybe some perspective.”
CC’sat 2 PM on Sunday is uncharacteristically quiet—too late for brunch, too early for dinner, populated by the hungover and homework-avoidant. The familiar smell of burned coffee and possibility hits as we slide into a corner booth.
A server I don’t recognize materializes with a coffee pot. Purple-streaked hair, maybe nineteen, smile that says she needs this job.
“Coffee?” Already pouring without waiting.
“Thanks.” I flip my mug, grateful for something to occupy my hands. “And a blueberry muffin, please.”
“Comfort carbs. Respect.” She turns to Riya. “You?”
“Just coffee. I’m the emotional support.”
