POV Bella
The fluorescent lights hummed above us, casting Ajax in sharp relief against the textbooks scattered at our feet. He stood perfectly still, processing my confession with the same detached calculation he'd use to assess a racing opponent.
No rage. No disgust. No dramatic gasp of sympathy.
Just that maddening stillness, his jaw working silently as if my death sentence was a math problem to solve.
"Say something." My voice cracked on the demand.
His eyes lifted to mine—dark green, unreadable. "How long have you known?"
"Five years."
A muscle ticked in his cheek.
Nothing more.
"That's it?" The words exploded from me. "I tell you I'm dying and you just what—stand there?"
"What do you want me to do, Bella? Cry? Rage? Fall to my knees?" His voice remained infuriatingly level. "Would that make this easier for you?"
"Bella?"
Camila's voice sliced through the tension.
She stood at the end of the aisle, laptop clutched to her chest, eyes darting between us with barely concealed alarm.
"We're supposed to work on the Morrison presentation tonight, remember?" Her tone was forcefully casual, a lifeline disguised as small talk.
"Right. Of course." I grabbed my bag, movements sharp and desperate.
He stepped forward. "Bella—"
"The presentation can't wait." I brushed past him, Camila already backing toward the exit. "Marketing waits for no one."
His hand shot out, fingers grazing my wrist. "This isn't over."
"Yes, it is." I yanked free and fled.
I barely remembered the presentation. Camila carried it while I sat rigid in the room, my mind still echoing with Ajax’s shocked expression. She asked questions I answered on autopilot, my chest tight with the weight of what I’d confessed.
Fall in love with someone who’ll just leave me anyway.
Had I really said that out loud? How stupid…
Camila shot me worried looks throughout, but I couldn’t focus. Every time my phone buzzed, I flinched, wondering if it was him. We blitzed through the presentation on autopilot; I flipped my phone to ‘Do Not Disturb’ and let work be a shield.
Campus was asleep by the time I finally dragged myself home, my eyes burning from staring at spreadsheets for hours. I’d managed to forget about Ajax for maybe ten-minute stretches, but his face kept surfacing.
The way he’d looked when I’d told him about the five months.
Then my phone erupted at 11:47 PM.
Ajax: What exactly is wrong with your heart?
Ajax: What are the treatment options?
Ajax: Why didn't you tell me sooner?
Each text felt like a scalpel, dissecting my carefully maintained walls. I watched the dots appear and disappear as he typed, deleted, typed again.
I finally responded then.
Me: I don't want to discuss this.
Ajax: We need to talk about it.
Me: No, we don't. Just promise you won't tell anyone.
Three dots. A pause. Then:
Ajax: Fine.
The silence that followed felt louder than his interrogation. By morning it had calcified into a plan: keep my head down and stay out of his orbit.
Campus became a minefield. I memorized his schedule, took stairs instead of elevators, ate lunch in my car. But Ajax had apparently majored in appearing exactly where I didn't want him.
"Fancy seeing you here," he drawled, materializing beside my table at the library. He dropped into the chair across from me. "Jake's throwing a party tonight. You should come."
"I have plans."
He leaned back, studying me with that same calculating expression. "You can't avoid me forever, Bella."
"Watch me." I gathered my books and left.
The next day, he occupied the bench outside my morning lecture. The day after, he commandeered the coffee cart line.
By Thursday, he'd recruited his entire racing crew to accidentally stumble into every place I tried to hide.
"This is harassment," I informed him as he appeared at the bookstore near campus.
"This is persistence." He picked up the journal I'd been examining. "Cardiac Transplantations. Light reading?"
"Give that back."
"Make me." He held it above his head, forcing me to reach for it.
Our bodies collided and his free hand steadied me at the waist. For one breathless moment, we stood frozen, pressed together in the middle of the section.
"Your heart's racing, starlight," he murmured.
"Side effect of dying." I snatched the journal and retreated.
"Or side effect of me."
"Your ego is genuinely astounding."
"Your deflection is genuinely transparent." He followed me to the register. "How's dance rehearsal going, by the way? Mrs. Meyer mentioned you've been practicing alone."
"It's fine."
"Liar. You need a partner for the waltz."
"I'll manage."
"No, you won't." He caught my arm gently. "Stop being stubborn and dance with me."
"Why do you care?"
The question burst out before I could stop it.
I looked up at his face—the patience in his eyes, the careful looseness of his grip—and for a heartbeat the bookshop fell away. The paper-dust air, the hum of the register, the display of new releases at our backs.
His restraint yanked me straight to the gala four years ago again. I’d wanted to blurt an apology, to explain it was a seventeen-year-old’s panic around a crush, but the cruelty that followed welded the words behind my teeth.
The memory twisted my stomach; I swallowed it down.
One thought cut through the noise: whatever awkward spark I’d struck back then, it didn’t excuse years of calculated torment.
I eased my arm from his hand. Then I stepped past the table of paperbacks and walked out of the campus bookstore without him.