[Emily’s POV]
Monday morning arrives with all the subtlety of a freight train, and I'm staring at my phone like it might spontaneously combust or reveal that this is all an elaborate prank.
The text from Maddie sits there, mocking me with its brevity: ‘I'm staying here. I'm transferring to Victoria's program. We're not good for each other right now. I'm sorry.’
Four sentences. She ended our entire relationship in four sentences, which is fewer words than I use to order coffee. I've written longer grocery lists. I've sent longer texts to my mother about what I want for dinner.
I hit the call button with perhaps more force than necessary, pressing the phone to my ear like I'm trying to will Maddie into answering through sheer determination. It rings once, twice, three times, and then—voicemail.
Her voice comes through, cheerful and pre-recorded and utterly useless. "Hey, you've reached Maddie. Leave a message."
"Maddie, what the hell?" I start, then stop because screaming into someone's voicemail isn't exactly productive. "Call me back. Please. We need to talk about this. You can't just—" The beep cuts me off mid-ramble, which is probably merciful.
I try texting instead. ‘We need to talk. Call me. Send. Maddie, please.’ Send. This is ridiculous. Send. ‘I know you're seeing these.’ Send. Each message delivers with that optimistic little swoosh sound, like they're accomplishing something instead of disappearing into the void.
By noon, I've sent approximately seventeen texts and called five more times, each attempt more desperate than the last. I'm officially that person now, the one who can't take a hint, even though this isn't a hint—it's a goddamn billboard.
I pace our dorm room like a caged animal. Back and forth, back and forth, wearing a path in the already questionable carpeting.
My phone stays glued to my hand, screen-up, volume on max, because maybe the problem is I'm not paying enough attention. Maybe if I stare at it hard enough, Maddie will magically respond.
The door opens around three, and Ava walks in looking concerned, which makes sense because I'm pretty sure I look unhinged. She takes one look at me—still pacing, still clutching my phone like a lifeline—and closes the door carefully behind her.
"Emily," she says gently, which is Ava-speak for 'you look like you're having a mental breakdown and I'm worried.' "What happened?"
I thrust my phone at her without saying anything because my voice isn't quite working right. Ava reads the text, and I watch her face go through about seventeen different expressions, landing somewhere between sympathetic and pissed off.
"Maddie sent that?" Ava hands my phone back like it might bite her, handling it with the caution usually reserved for unexploded ordinance. "That's... wow. That's cold."
"She thinks she's doing me a favor," I say, my voice cracking embarrassingly. "She thinks leaving is helping somehow. That we're toxic or broken or whatever bullshit David probably fed her."
Ava sits down on her bed, patting the space beside her in a way that suggests I should stop pacing before I wear a hole through to the floor below. "She's protecting you in the most destructive way possible. That tracks."
I sit because standing feels exhausting suddenly. "That's what makes it worse. If she was just giving up, I could be angry. But she genuinely thinks this is the right thing. She thinks she's saving me."
"Then you need to tell her she's wrong." Ava says it like it's simple, like convincing Maddie of anything that has ever been simple. "In person. You're not going to fix this over text."
The idea settles in my chest, heavy and terrifying. "Drive to her parents' house? Just show up?" I can hear how skeptical I sound, like I'm proposing we climb Mount Everest in flip-flops.
"If you still want to fight for this, yeah." Ava meets my eyes, her expression serious. "Otherwise, you're just letting her make this decision for both of you. Is that what you want?"
I think about Maddie packing her duffel bag Saturday morning, about the way she wouldn't look at me. Think about months of fighting together, of surviving her injury and the discipline hearing and the biased judges. Think about giving up now because it got hard.
"No," I say finally, the word coming out stronger than I feel. "That's not what I want at all." So I get my phone and text all my professors the absence note because of ‘family emergency’. It technically is.
Tuesday morning, I'm in my car before sunrise, which is either romantic or deeply stupid. Possibly both. The GPS cheerfully informs me it's a three-hour drive, and I spend every single minute of it rehearsing what I'll say.
‘Maddie, you're making a mistake.’ Too accusatory. ‘Maddie, I love you.’ Too vague. ‘Maddie, David's manipulating you.’ Too confrontational.
By hour two, I've cycled through approximately forty-seven different opening lines, each one worse than the last. By hour three, I've given up on planning and I'm just running on pure anxiety and determination.
The house appears exactly as I remember it from move-in day—neat lawn, suburban perfection, completely ordinary except for the fact that the person I love is inside making terrible decisions.
I park on the street and stare at the front door like it might spontaneously open and save me from having to do this. It doesn't. Doors, as a general rule, are not helpful.
My hands shake as I get out of the car. They're still shaking as I walk up the driveway. They're definitely shaking when I reach for the doorbell, and I have to try twice before I actually manage to press it.
The chime echoes inside the house, pleasant and normal, completely at odds with the panic currently residing in my chest cavity. Footsteps approach from inside, measured and deliberate.
I hear them getting closer, and then the door opens to reveal David, whose expression could charitably be described as 'not welcoming' and more accurately described as 'please leave my property.'
His face is cold, professionally polite in the way that suggests he'd rather be literally anywhere else. "Emily."
"I need to see Maddie." My voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is a minor miracle. "Please."
"Madison doesn't want to see you." David's tone is firm, final. "She's made her decision. I think it's best if you respect that."
Something hot and sharp rises in my chest—anger, frustration, desperation all mixed together. "With all due respect, I'd like to hear that from her. Let Maddie tell me that herself."
David stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing something—whether I'm worth the trouble, whether this is a fight he wants to have on his front porch, whether there's any point in trying to keep me out.
I hold his gaze, refusing to back down. I drove three hours for this. I'm not leaving without talking to her.
Something shifts in his expression—not quite approval, but maybe recognition. He turns toward the stairs and calls up, his voice carrying through the house. "Madison. You have a visitor."