Betty’s POV
I hadn’t seen Marcus since that awkward encounter on campus weeks ago, and honestly, I preferred it that way. There was too much between us—too much history, too many unspoken things lingering like shadows in the corners of my mind.
But life didn’t leave much room for introspection. The showcase had been a roaring success, the team was finally hitting its stride, and Dana’s feature was shaping up to be something I could genuinely be proud of. On the surface, everything was falling into place. I should’ve felt on top of the world.
Instead, all I could think about was the growing distance between Brent and me.
Our calls had become infrequent, our texts shorter and less meaningful. It wasn’t anyone’s fault—we were both busy, wrapped up in our own demanding lives—but the silence between us felt heavier with each passing day. And no matter how much I tried to focus on the good things in my life, that creeping sense of disconnection wouldn’t leave me alone.
Late one night, I left the studio after another long session, the crisp autumn air biting at my skin. The campus was quiet, the faint glow of streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. I was tired—bone-deep, soul-weary tired—and all I wanted was to get home, curl up under my blankets, and shut out the world for a while.
As I rounded a corner, I nearly collided with someone coming from the opposite direction.
“Watch it,” I snapped instinctively, stepping back. But the words caught in my throat when I saw who it was.
Marcus.
He stood there, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, his familiar dark eyes meeting mine with an unreadable expression. He didn’t look surprised to see me, but he didn’t look particularly pleased either. If anything, he seemed… guarded.
“Late night?” he asked, his voice casual, almost too casual.
“Something like that,” I muttered, clutching my sketchpad tighter against my chest.
He nodded, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than it should have. The silence between us stretched, taut and full of things neither of us would say. Finally, he stepped aside, giving me room to pass.
“Don’t let me keep you,” he said quietly.
I didn’t respond. I brushed past him, my steps hurried, my pulse racing for reasons I didn’t want to acknowledge. The encounter left a strange ache in my chest, one I couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t regret—it was something messier, something tangled and unresolved, something I didn’t want to name.
As I walked away, I couldn’t help but glance back, just once. Marcus hadn’t moved; he was still standing there, watching me disappear into the night. For a fleeting moment, I wondered what he was thinking, if he felt the same strange pull I did.
But I didn’t stop. And neither did he.