That exhaustion has made me sharp. My sarcasm isn’t always funny; it’s often defensive. I don’t do casual. I don’t do handshakes that last longer than they should. Friendships terrify me, not because they’re complicated but because they’refragile. I learned early that people will leave, sometimes politely, sometimes in bursts of anger, sometimes because of an opportunity that tastes too sweet to resist. Every departure is a tiny subtraction. After enough subtractions, you stop inviting people in.
“No, it’s not,” I reply immediately, sharper than I mean to be.
The words come out fast, defensive, like I need to shut the idea down before it even settles in the room.
He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t smile. He just looks at me. And the absence of humor on his face unsettles me more than any joke ever has. His expression is steady now. Serious. The kind of seriousness that doesn’t waver. It makes my skin feel too tight, like I’ve been caught without armor.
That makes it worse.
Because I don’t know how to fight that version of him.
“Listen, Aryan,” I begin, and my voice betrays me just enough that I hear the tremor before he does. I straighten instinctively, trying to sound firm, unshakable. “I don’t want anyone in my life. If that’s not clear, I’m making it clear.”
My fingers curl slightly against my palm, nails pressing into skin as if grounding me.
Shut up.
Stop talking.
You’re oversharing.
My brain screams at me to stop.
“I am done with people,” I continue, the words spilling out faster now. They feel old. Rehearsed. Like something I’ve told myself a hundred times in the dark. “They up and leave whenever they wish to. Without caring what’s going to happen to the one left behind.”
My throat tightens as I say it, but I force the words out anyway.
Because if I don’t say them, if I let his softness linger too long, I might start believing him.
And believing him would be the real mistake.
“So no. As I said, I can very well survive without anyone. I don’t need your care just because my head is aching and I have a blocked nose.”
He watches me the entire time. “Are you done?” he asks quietly. I stare at him blankly.
“Because,” he continues, exhaling slowly, “I don’t like the sound of you just surviving, Ishika.”
I scoff, but my eyes sting. “You’re pitying me,” I whisper. “That’s why these words are coming out of your mouth.”
His expression tightens slightly. “Trust me when I say this, Aryan,” I continue, my throat thick, “I am fucked up. No one wants to stay around me. My own parents left me when I was fifteen.” The words hurt more out loud. “People leave, Aryan. I am not someone to stay for.”
“Try me,” he interrupts.
The confidence in his voice makes me freeze.
“Aryan—”
“Ishika,” he cuts in gently. “I don’t know what kind of people you had in your life. But you are a very interesting person.” I blink at him. “You are bold,” he says, stepping slightly closer. “Courageous. Stubborn as hell. Prideful. Funny in your dry, mean way. Intelligent. Passionate. Determined.”
My throat tightens.
“You are also kind,” he adds softly. “I see how you treat everyone well, except me.” He fakes a pout and despite everything, I let out a small laugh. My eyes blur. “Even when they don’t deserve it. Which, by the way, is very hurtful to me.”
“And I need to know,” he speaks firmer, “what have I done so particularly wrong?”
I shake my head weakly. “So try me,” he says again, extending his hand toward me. “If I leave, you can burn my office to the ground. You already know the address.”
A laugh escapes me through tears. He beams at that, like it’s a victory. “Friends?” he asks as he extends his hand towards me.
