The campus looks the same. That's the strange part.
The same benches baked warm by the afternoon sun. The same students sitting in loose circles, laughing too loudly, pretending midterms are not stalking them from a distance. Someone strums a guitar badly near the steps. Life, in all its irritating persistence, keeps moving.
I am cutting across the ground when I see her.
Lena stands near the notice board, phone in her hand, hair pulled back the way she does when she is trying to look composed. She laughs at something Samuel says. It is a soft laugh. Practiced. It does not reach her eyes.
My chest tightens out of habit.
The old reflex fires instantly. The pull. The urge to walk over. To ask what that laugh means. To decode her face like it is a riddle only I am responsible for solving. My body remembers her before my mind can intervene.
For a second, I almost turn.
Then I don't.
I stay where I am, rooted to the ground, and let the feeling rise and fall like a wave that finally understands it does not need to crash.
Something has shifted. Quietly. Without ceremony.
I am not angry.
I am not jealous.
I am not desperate.
I am tired. But clear.
A question surfaces, simple enough to scare me.
Does staying in her orbit make me better or smaller?
The answer arrives immediately. No bargaining. No hesitation.
Smaller.
I think of the way my chest tightens every time she looks at me like I am a problem she has not decided how to solve. The way hope keeps sneaking back in, uninvited, only to be kicked down the stairs again. The way I keep shrinking myself just to fit into whatever version of me she needs that day.
I exhale slowly.
I am done proving my pain is real.
I take my phone out before I can overthink it. If I walk over there, I will soften. I will explain. I will bleed words until she looks relieved and I look hollow again.
So I don't walk over.
I text.
My fingers hover for a moment, then move.
Me: Lena, I'm not angry. I'm not blaming you for anything. But I need some distance. Not to punish you. To protect myself.
I stare at the screen after I send it. My heart thuds, steady but heavy. No rush of adrenaline. No panic. Just a low, quiet ache, like pulling out a splinter that has been there too long.
Her reply comes almost immediately.
Lena: What? Why are you doing this now?
So you're just giving up? After everything?
I thought you at least understood me.
I close my eyes.
There it is. The familiar hook. The invitation to defend myself. To explain my intentions like they are on trial. To reassure her that I still care enough to stay in pain.
I open my eyes again.
Me: I do understand you. That's why I can't stay.
The typing dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Lena: You're abandoning me. Just like everyone else.
The words land sharp and familiar. They used to slice me open. Used to make me scramble, desperate to prove I was not like the rest.
Today, they only make me sad.
Not just for myself. For both of us.
I type one last message, slower this time. Careful. Honest.
Me: I hope you're happy.
I really do.
I just can't be here anymore.
I hit send before my courage can evaporate.
Then, with a steadiness that surprises me, I mute the chat.
The campus noise swells again. Laughter. Footsteps. Someone calling out a name that is not mine.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and keep walking.
It hurts. Of course it does. Letting go always hurts, even when it is necessary. Especially then.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
By evening, the apartment smells like burnt toast and instant noodles. Alice's contribution to domestic life. She stands at the counter, poking at a pan like it personally offended her, hair tied up in a messy knot that is doing a poor job of staying together.
I sit at the small kitchen table with my laptop closed in front of me, hands wrapped around a mug I forgot to drink from. I have been like this for a while. Just sitting. Existing.
Alice glances at me. Then again.
She waits for it. The name. The spiral.
The dramatic sigh followed by emotional whiplash.
Nothing comes.
She clears her throat. "So," she says lightly, eyes still on the pan, "did Lena suddenly move to another planet, or did Samuel finally get abducted by aliens?"
I don't smile. I don't flinch.
I just shrug.
The pan stops sizzling.
That is when she turns fully toward me.
Her joking expression slips, just a little. Like a crack in glass.
"That was a joke," she says. "You're supposed to groan. Or say something broody. Or defend her honor dramatically."
"I know."
Another beat.
She leans against the counter, arms crossing. Her voice lowers, careful now. "You haven't mentioned either of them all day."
"I know."
That makes her frown.
I take a breath, finally lift the mug, realize it is cold, and set it back down untouched. "I'm just quiet today."
Alice studies me the way you study a bruise you do not remember getting. "You're never just quiet. You're either falling apart or pretending you're fine."
I let out a short laugh. "That's a terrible personality profile."
"It's accurate."
She pushes off the counter and sits across from me, the chair scraping softly. No dramatics. No grabbing my arm. Just presence.
"You okay?" she asks.
The question is simple. No pressure. No demand for a performance.
I think about lying. About saying yeah the way I usually do, quick and empty.
Instead, I say, "I think I finally am."
The words surprise both of us.
Her eyebrows lift. "That sounds suspiciously like something people say right before they implode."
"Maybe." I glance at the wall, then back at her. "But this feels different."
"How?"
I search for it, for the right shape of the feeling. "I'm not angry. Or panicking. Or trying to fix anything." I pause. "I'm just done reacting."
Alice does not respond immediately. She watches me, eyes sharp but not intrusive.
"That scares me more than when you're drunk and poetic," she admits.
"Good to know."
She exhales, rubbing her thumb against the edge of the table. "I'm not asking you to explain everything. I just need to know you're not disappearing into your head again."
I meet her gaze.
There is concern there. Real concern. Not ownership. Not obligation.
"I don't know how to promise that," I say honestly.
She nods. "Figures."
"But," I add, quieter, "I hear you."
That seems to matter.
She stands, grabs the pan again, and grimaces at whatever she has created. "Great. Emotional breakthrough achieved. Dinner is still a crime scene."
I almost smile.
As she turns back to the stove, she says over her shoulder, softer, "Just stay. Okay?"
The chair beneath me is warm. The room smells faintly of toast and burnt oil. The world does not demand anything from me in this moment.
I didn't answer.
But I stayed.