Her hair’s tied up in an uneven bun. Probably a pen cap buried somewhere inside it. Her hoodie is two sizes too big—slouchy and soft.
She’s the detour I never recovered from.
The girl who blew up her own future, and mine, with one well-timed disappearance.
Up until she transferred, I hadn’t seen her in a while. But I remembered her exactly.
The laugh she used to smother when I made her angry on purpose. The way she kissed as if she was trying to win something. The way she left as if it didn’t cost her anything at all.
She’s already in the room when I walk in.
Third row. Far right. Back straight. Elbows tucked. Typing with that calculated rhythm—fast enough to look engaged, slow enough to look unbothered. She always sits near the outlet, because her laptop charger’s always dying, and she still refuses to replace it. That stubborn, nonsensical brand of martyrdom she wears as a badge.
She doesn’t look at me.
She’s aiming for casual disinterest but landing somewhere between rigid and rattled, which is how I know she saw me first.
It’s almost cute.
It’s also deeply familiar.
She never used to look away from me.
Not when she kissed me as if survival was a limited resource and I was hoarding the last of it.
And definitely not the night before she disappeared.
Because that night?
She didn’t say goodbye.
She simply vanished.
I’ve told myself I’m over it. Told myself so many times it’s practically scripture.
But then I see her fingers pause, barely a hitch, when I slide into the row beside her.
My pen taps once against her desk, a sharp little knock. Her eyes cut to mine. I wink.
She flips me off without hesitation.
Because that’s the game, isn’t it?
She gets to pretend she’s above it. Above the memory of what we were and the IOUs she’s already obtained.
But I don’t play pretend.
Professor Sarin opens the lecture with a groan about landlord rights and medieval tenancy law. The room fake-laughs, the way desperate law students do when they think laughter buys favor. I don’t laugh. I don’t even hear him.
I’m only watching her.
Not directly. I don’t stare.
She’s tapping her leg under the desk, a nervous habit she thinks she outgrew.
Her hand flattens over her notebook, trying to anchor herself to the page. Pretending focus is enough to hide the unraveling.
It’s not.
