But one person is still going to need time to understand that I am not her emotional punching bag anymore.
I notice her before she notices me.
Lena is standing near the library steps, phone in her hand, thumb scrolling without rhythm. She is pretending. Badly. Her shoulders are too stiff. Her weight shifts every few seconds. Her eyes keep lifting from the screen, scanning faces that are not there yet.
Looking for me.
The old instinct kicks in immediately. Turn around. Take the longer path. Avoid the collision. I have perfected avoidance over the years. It kept things quiet. It kept things survivable.
I slow for half a second.
Then I keep walking.
She looks up when I am only a few steps away, startled, like she did not expect me to still exist in solid form.
"Ash," she says, too quickly. "Hey."
I stop. Not because I want to talk. Because walking past her would turn this into a scene. And I am tired of scenes.
"Hey."
The silence stretches. Students pass behind us. Laughter drifts from somewhere near the quad. Life refuses to pause for our unresolved history.
She smiles. Small. Careful. The kind of smile that checks the room before settling.
"You have been busy," she says.
"Yeah."
I didn't explain. I didn't apologize.
Her eyes flick past me toward the path that leads to the parking lot. Toward the place where Alice sometimes waits. The movement is quick, instinctive, and unmistakable.
"So," she says, tucking hair behind her ear. "You and Alice. You are really together?"
It is not curiosity.
It is a test.
"We are."
The answer lands flat and final.
She lets out a soft laugh, but it is strained, like she practiced it on the walk over. "You do not really like her like that, right?"
There it is.
A couple of students slow as they pass us. Not enough to stop, but enough to hear.
I look at Lena and realize she is not nervous about losing me. She is nervous about losing access.
"Why would you ask that?" I say.
She shrugs, too fast. "It just feels sudden. Like a phase."
A phase.
Something in me goes very still.
"You do not get to decide that."
Her smile falters.
"I didn't mean it like that," she says quickly, recalibrating. "I just think you confuse comfort with feelings. You always have."
Always.
The word hits harder than it should. Like she has edited my entire past into something manageable. Like my feelings only count when they orbit her.
"You chose Samuel," I say quietly.
Her jaw tightens. "That does not mean I stopped caring about you."
Caring.
Not loving. Not missing.
Caring, like I am a responsibility she misplaced.
She steps closer and lowers her voice. "This thing with Alice. It is temporary, right? Because you are kind of blowing up everything we had for something that will not last."
Someone behind us laughs. Someone else coughs. The world keeps listening.
I finally understand it clearly.
She doesn't want me.
She wants me available.
I step back.
"No," I say. "It isn't temporary."
Her eyes widen. Just a fraction.
"Ash," she starts.
"I meant what I said in that message," I continue. My voice is calm. That seems to bother her more than anger ever did. "I am not angry at you. But I am not doing this anymore."
"This?" Her voice sharpens. "What exactly is this?"
I glance between us. The space feels heavier now. Watched.
"This place you keep me in," I say. "Half gone. Half yours."
Her face shifts. Shock first. Then something close to panic.
"You are acting like I am the bad guy," she says. Her voice trembles, loud enough now that people are definitely listening. "After everything I have been through."
I didn't argue.
That is what unsettles her the most.
"I hope you are happy," I say. "I really do."
The words feel different this time. Not like surrender. Like an ending.
She doesn't call my name as I walk away.
But I feel it anyway. The loss of control. The realization that I am no longer where she left me.
By the time I reach the edge of the quad, my phone buzzes.
A message from Josh.
Did something happen? Lena just posted something weird.
I didn't open it.
Not yet.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The apartment is quiet in the way late nights tend to be. Not peaceful. Just emptied out.
Josh figured out pretty quickly that he wanted to stay around me, even if it was inconvenient. Alice's apartment was too small, so he found a room right next to ours and rented it. Now, after his classes, he ends up just across the wall, close without crowding.
Josh's door is shut right now. Music leaks faintly through the wall, bass low, restless. Alice went to bed hours ago, after asking if I was okay and accepting my yes without pushing. That alone feels unfamiliar.
The fridge hums softly, trying and failing to fill the silence.
I sit on my bed with my laptop balanced on my thighs. The screen lights up my hands. They look older in this light. Veins more visible. Like they have been holding onto things too long.
I open a new document.
The cursor blinks.
Waiting.
Judging.
I almost close it. The instinct is still there. If you do not know exactly what this will become, do not start. The voice sounds like my mother. Like Richard. Like every adult who ever told me talent only matters when it behaves.
I type a title without thinking.
Then I delete it.
I type another.
Delete that too.
Finally, on the first line, I write:
This is for me.
I stop.
Read it again.
Something tight in my chest shifts. Not pain. Release.
No one else gets this.
Not Lena, with her guilt disguised as concern. Not Samuel, with his sharp words and inherited bitterness. Not my parents, orbiting their own disappointments and calling it love. Not even Josh or Alice, no matter how much they care.
Just me.
I start writing without a plan.
It is messy. Uneven. Honest in a way that makes my jaw clench. I write about being useful. About how love in my life always arrived with conditions. About how I learned early that understanding everyone was easier than being understood.
I write about being wanted only when I fit someone else's narrative. The good son. The talented kid. The forgiving ex. The reasonable one.
My fingers move faster. I didn't stop them.
Halfway through a paragraph, I pause, staring at a sentence that feels dangerous. It names someone. Not kindly.
I consider deleting it.
Instead, I change one word. Make it truer. Make it uglier.
I save the document.
Under my real name.
That scares me more than the writing itself.
My phone buzzes again.
Another message from Josh. Then one from an unknown number. Then a notification I do not open. I turn the phone face down.
For once, I didn't rush to manage the damage.
The room feels different. Not lighter. Just quieter.
I lean back against the headboard, laptop warm against my legs. Outside, the sky begins to pale into that dishonest blue that pretends morning is gentle.
I keep writing anyway.
For me.
Only for me.