When the woman left, I dropped my arm from around Alana and redirected us to safer ground—school, schedules, anything that didn’t make my heart flutter. I retreated entirely, and just as quickly, her laughter vanished.
She didn’t text me the next day. Or the day after that. I told myself that was for the best. That maybe a little space was good for us.
The guilt, though? It wouldn’t let up. It sat heavy in my stomach like lead. Because I knew it wasn’t her fault I was broken in ways I didn’t know how to fix; but I was shitting on her anyway because of it. It was my fault for putting myself in that position in the first place. A position I had sworn off ever being near again.
We’re meeting at the café again out of pure need for Stanley’s assignment. I told myself I’ll keep my distance. No teasing. No easy smiles. I stand in line telling myself won’t even buy her a coffee. But when she walks in, those storm-blue eyes find mine, and the center of my chest does that stupid thing again, opening up in a way my head wanted it to remain closed. I order her drink, feeling stupid for trying to avoid the gesture when it comes to me like muscle memory.
“Hey,” she says when I reach her at our go-to table. Her voice is softer than usual. Guarded.
“Hey,” I manage, trying not to sound like I’m apologizing for just existing. But I want to.
The silence stretches enough to notice. It’s not our norm. It’s weighted. Awkward. She keeps her gaze low, opening her notebook, acting like she doesn’t notice my quiet, and I wonder if she can feel how hard I’m trying to not look at her. To not let her see that I’ve already started missing her in a way I have no right to in the first place.
Sitting across from her, I can see how my hurt is leaking into her world. I see it in the way her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes anymore. How her gaze lost its gemstone sparkle that came with the laugh she’s no longer sharing. I was trying to protect her from what I couldn’t give, but all I’ve done is make her pay for a wound she never gave me.
Her eyes remain on her book, pretending to focus on her notes. Completely unbothered. I watched her pen move, and something about the deliberate concentration in her brow hurts worse than it should. It's not that she’s cold. It’s that she’s protecting herself.
From me.
And I hate that I’m the reason she needs to.
I told myself I’d leave her alone, I’d focus on my own notes and keep this whatever-it-is from crossing the line again. But the quiet between us isn’t peaceful—it’s whirring with everything unsaid about the way I gave her warmth and then pulled it away. Every time she brushes her hair behind her ear, every soft exhale she lets slip, pulses under my skin.
I can’t take it.
“Alana,” I say quietly.
Her head lifts, just barely, her eyes never meeting mine. “Yeah?”
I swallow, wishing I had something better planned other than only saying her name. “You don’t have to…pretend, okay? With me, I mean.”
She blinks, looking up at me with only her eyes. “Pretend what?”
“That you’re okay with how I acted.” I drop my eyes to the table. “I know I made things weird the other day. I just—I didn’tmean to.”
For a second, she doesn’t answer. Then her pen rolls from her fingers, hitting the wood with a dull tap.
“You didn’t make things weird,” she says softly. “You just…” She pauses, searching for words, and when her eyes land on mine, she huffs out a breath before she caves to the truth. “Okay, you did.” I give her a sideways shadow of a grin, full of remorse and a bit of guilt. “It’s fine, though. Really. I get it.”
The honesty in her tone wrecks me. Because even though she’s not asking for one, she deserves an explanation. But I can’t give her one. How can I explain that even though I like her and think about her often, that even though she has been the brightest part of my every day for the last couple months, I don’t want anything to do with it. I don’t want anything to do with what comes after. I don’t want anything close to the four-letter word I know will try to make its way through the ice wall of armor I’ve created for good reason.
So, instead, I give her the safest words I can manage, knowing they teeter between deception and honesty.
“I’ve just been tired lately,” I say, forcing a small smile.
She nods like she believes me, but I can see the hurt flash in her eyes before she looks away. The kind that doesn’t come from anger but disappointment. From caring when you wish you didn’t. From thinking you got close with someone, only to be shown you didn’t know them at all.
Her eyes fall to the table, tracing the rim of her cup as if it could give her something solid to hold on to. My hand itches to reach across, take hers, and say something—anything—that could undo the hurt I saw flicker through her. But all I can do is sit here, jaw tight, nails digging into the base of my palm. Muted.
She gives a small nod, more to herself than to me. “Yeah,” she says, almost under her breath. “I get that.”
That’s it. No bitterness. No sarcasm. Just quiet acceptance that somehow stings more than if she’d been angry.
For the rest of the hour, we work in silence. She keeps her focus fixed on the page, but I can tell she’s not truly present. Her foot bounces beneath the table, her eyes darting too quickly when I look her way. And I know it’s my fault.
Because she had opened me up, and I let her see just enough before I shut her out. I made her second-guess that warmth. I made her question whether it was safe to shine around me.
When she finally packs up, she smiles small and polite, the kind you give a stranger you’ll never see again, and it guts me.
