Violet’s POV
The sorority's fall formal arrives with the particular chaos of events designed to showcase social currency, and I've been stringing fairy lights for three hours while my mind refuses to stay in this room.
"Higher on the left," Cassidy calls from across the ballroom, clipboard pressed against her chest like armor.
I adjust the strand without responding. My thoughts keep circling the same problem I've been avoiding since yesterday—the question Marvin asked with the casual confidence of someone who's never been told no.
So I'll pick you up at seven on Saturday?
Not a question. An assumption. His arm around my waist in every photo. My name beside his in captions that will circulate for weeks. The full spotlight treatment I've been dodging since this thing between us started.
I said I'd think about it.
The non-answer bought me time but not a solution, and now I'm standing on a ladder arranging centerpieces while the clock runs out on my ability to avoid choosing.
"Violet." Gemma's voice cuts through my spiral. "Bathroom. Now."
I climb down and follow her through the half-decorated venue, past sisters arguing about tablecloth colors and the DJ testing his equipment with bass that vibrates through my sternum. The bathroom door closes behind us, and the sudden quiet feels like pressure.
"What are you going to do?" She leans against the sink, arms crossed, expression carrying the particular sharpness she reserves for moments when I'm being obviously avoidant.
"About what?"
"Don't." She shakes her head. "You've been distracted all day. Marvin asked you to the formal, and you're spiraling instead of answering. So what's the problem?"
I turn toward the mirror because looking at her feels impossible right now. "There's no problem."
"Violet."
"He wants me to go as his date." The words come out flatter than I intended. "Publicly. Visibly. His girlfriend in front of everyone."
"And that's bad because...?"
"Because being Marvin's girlfriend means becoming someone people watch." I grip the edge of the sink, watching my knuckles go white. "Judge. Discuss in dining halls and group chats. It means surrendering the privacy I've been using as armor since I got here."
Gemma's expression softens slightly. "Privacy. Or hiding?"
The question lands like a blade I didn't see coming.
"Going public with him means choosing a version of my life that doesn't include space for—" I stop myself before Zachary's name escapes. "For anything else. It means committing to something I'm not sure I'm ready for."
"You're not sure you're ready," Gemma repeats slowly, "or you're hoping something better comes along?"
"That's not fair."
"Maybe not. But it's accurate." She pushes off from the sink and crosses to me, her hands finding my shoulders. "Violet, Marvin's patience isn't infinite. You keep asking him to stay in the shadows, and eventually he's going to get tired of living there."
"I know."
"Do you?" Her grip tightens briefly. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're trying to keep all your options open while committing to none of them. That's not fair to him. And honestly? It's not fair to you either."
I meet her eyes in the mirror. "What if I choose wrong?"
"What if you don't?" She releases my shoulders and steps back. "Text him. Stop torturing yourself with hypotheticals and make a decision."
"Since when did you become the voice of reason?"
"Since you started needing one." Her smile takes the edge off the words. "You're allowed to want things, Violet. Even things that scare you. That's what being brave actually looks like."
She leaves me alone in the bathroom, and I pull out my phone before I can talk myself out of it.
Going public with Marvin means closing a door. Not because I owe Zachary anything—his message made that clear. I'm giving you space. Not because I've stopped wanting you. He stepped back. Gave me exactly what I demanded. But visibility changes everything. Once I'm publicly Marvin's girlfriend, I become someone defined by who she's dating rather than who she's becoming.
My thumbs hover over the screen.
Refusing means losing him. His patience has already stretched thinner than I realized—I've felt it in the way his questions have sharpened lately, the disappointment he tries to hide when I deflect another invitation to something public. The way his jaw tightens when I pull back from a kiss that's lasting too long in too public a space.
I type the message.
Yes. I'll go with you.
Send.
Three dots appear immediately. He was waiting. Of course he was waiting—probably staring at his phone the same way I've been avoiding mine. My chest tightens as I watch them pulse, and I add the compromise I need before he can respond:
But can we keep the public displays minimal? I'm not ready for the full spotlight yet.
The dots disappear. Reappear. Disappear again.
His response arrives thirty seconds later. A single thumbs up emoji.
Agreement and disappointment compressed into one digital gesture. He said yes. He also didn't say anything else. No reassurance, no pushback, no indication of what he's actually feeling beneath the yellow cartoon hand. Just acceptance that somehow feels worse than argument would have.
I pocket my phone and return to the ballroom, helping Cassidy with the remaining centerpieces while the weight of my decision settles into my bones. The formal is three days away. Three days to figure out how to be visible without being consumed by the looking. Three days to perform a version of myself that exists somewhere between who Marvin wants and who I'm still trying to become.
Zachary's message still sits in my inbox, saved but unopened for weeks. The words burn even through memory. He gave me exactly what I demanded—space, freedom, the absence of his wanting pressing against my decisions.
And now I'm about to become someone else's girlfriend in public, wondering why freedom feels so much like a different kind of trap.
"These look amazing," Cassidy says, surveying the finished tables. "You've really outdone yourself today."
I smile and accept the compliment because that's what the performance requires.
Three days.
I adjust another centerpiece and try to imagine Saturday—Marvin's arm around me, cameras flashing, my name attached to his in every caption. The image won't hold. It keeps dissolving into questions I don't have answers for.
But I said yes. And yes has to mean something, even when I'm not sure what.