Ellen stops looking at me.
It happens slowly enough that at first I think I’m imagining it. A missed glance here. A delayed response there. The kind of small shifts you can explain away if you really want to—if you’re already exhausted and don’t have the emotional bandwidth to confront another fracture.
But after a few days, it becomes impossible to ignore.
We sit at the same table in the library, our usual spot by the window where the light hits softly and the world outside feels distant. I drop my bag on the chair beside hers, the sound louder than necessary.
“Hey,” I say.
She looks up too late. “Oh. Hi.”
Her smile is polite. Careful. Like she’s speaking to someone she doesn’t know very well.
I sit slowly, my stomach tightening. “You’ve been here long?”
“A bit,” she says, eyes already dropping back to her notes.
“Cool,” I reply, even though nothing about this feels cool. “What are you working on?”
“Stats,” she says shortly.
I nod. “Fun.”
She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even smile.
The silence stretches, brittle and unfamiliar. The quiet between us used to feel safe—two people coexisting without pressure. Now it feels like a wall.
I try again. “I skipped Wilson’s lecture today.”
She hums in acknowledgment. “Yeah. I noticed.”
“You did?” I ask, surprised.
She shrugs. “Hard not to. You always sit two rows up, left side.”
The fact that she knows that—and still won’t look at me—makes something twist painfully in my chest.
“I’m just… dealing with stuff,” I say.
“Everyone is,” she replies.
Her tone isn’t cruel. Just distant.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Did I do something?”
She pauses, pen hovering over the page. For a moment, I think she might finally look at me.
Instead, she says, “No.”
The answer comes too fast.
“Ellen,” I say gently. “That doesn’t sound like a real no.”
She sighs quietly, shoulders tensing. “I just have a lot on my mind.”
“So do I,” I reply, before I can stop myself. “That’s kind of why this feels… weird.”
She finally looks at me then. Really looks.
Her eyes flick over my face, then away again. “Things change, Zoey.”
The way she says my name—carefully, like it’s fragile—makes my chest ache.
“Is this about Chase?” I ask.
Her jaw tightens.
“I figured,” I add quickly. “I mean, I know it’s awkward. Us getting back together. And the whole… Wilson thing. I just thought—”
“You thought what?” she asks, cutting in softly.
I hesitate. “That we were okay.”
She exhales slowly. “I don’t know how to be okay right now.”
The words land heavier than I expect.
“Because of me?” I ask.
She looks at me again, something unreadable flickering across her face. “Not exactly.”
“That’s not comforting,” I admit.
“I’m not trying to comfort you,” she says quietly.
That stings.
I lean back in my chair, folding my arms. “I’m trying to understand.”
“And I’m trying not to say something I can’t take back,” she replies.
The honesty of that makes my stomach drop.
We sit there in silence again, but this time it’s sharp. Charged.
After a few minutes, she gathers her things abruptly. “I need to go.”
“Already?” I ask. “We usually stay until—”
“I know,” she says. “I just… can’t today.”
She stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder. I rise too, panic flaring.
“Ellen, please,” I say. “If I did something wrong, I want to fix it.”
She hesitates, hand on the strap of her bag.
“This isn’t something you fix,” she says softly. “It’s something you notice.”
And then she walks away.
I stand there long after she’s gone, my notes forgotten, my chest tight with confusion and a creeping sense of dread.
I tell myself it’s about Chase.
That she’s uncomfortable because I went back to him. That she’s disappointed in me. That she thinks I’m repeating old mistakes.
That explanation is easy. Clean.
I cling to it.
Over the next week, the distance becomes routine.
Ellen stops sitting with me at lunch. When she does, she keeps her headphones in. Our conversations shrink to logistics—deadlines, room numbers, shared classes.
“You going to chess club today?” I ask one afternoon.
She shakes her head. “Busy.”
“With what?”
“Stuff,” she replies.
The word feels deliberately vague.
I nod, pretending it doesn’t bother me. Pretending it doesn’t feel like losing one of the few people who made this place feel survivable.
I catch her once in the hallway and try again. “Can we talk later?”
She looks startled, then guarded. “About what?”
“Us,” I say. “Whatever this is.”
She swallows. “I don’t think now’s a good time.”
“When is?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
That night, I lie in bed replaying every interaction we’ve had over the past few weeks. Searching for something I missed. A moment where I crossed a line without realizing it.
Is it Chase? Is it Wilson? Is it me?
The questions spiral, feeding into the anxiety already gnawing at me from every other direction.
I start noticing other things too.
Ellen leaving class early. Ellen sitting with different people. Ellen laughing softly at something someone else says, then going quiet when she notices me nearby.
It hurts more than I expect.
Because Ellen was never dramatic. She never demanded. She never competed.
She just existed beside me—and somehow that mattered more than I realized.
One afternoon, as I pack up my bag, Clara slides into the seat beside me.
“Hey,” she says casually. “You and Ellen okay?”
My stomach drops. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Because she’s been weird. And because she and Chase have been spending time together.”
The words hit me like ice water.
“What?” I ask.
Clara hesitates. “I mean, probably nothing. I’ve just seen them talking. A lot.”
My chest tightens. “Talking where?”
“Library. Cafeteria. Once outside the dorms,” she says. “You know how people are. They talk.”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “People talk.”
I force a laugh. “It’s probably just… awkwardness.”
Clara shrugs. “If you say so.”
I walk away with my heart pounding, trying to calm myself.
It’s nothing, I tell myself. Ellen isn’t like that. Chase wouldn’t—
Wouldn’t what?
The thought trails off, unfinished.
That evening, I see Ellen across the quad, sitting on a bench with her phone in her hands. Chase walks past her without stopping.
Relief washes over me, quick and intense.
See? I tell myself. Nothing.
But when Ellen looks up, our eyes meet—and she looks away first.
Something cold settles in my stomach.
I don’t confront her.
I don’t confront Chase.
I tell myself I’m being paranoid. That stress is making me see patterns where there are none. That college gossip thrives on coincidence.
Deep down, though, something feels off.
Like the ground beneath me is shifting again—quietly, patiently—waiting for the moment I stop pretending not to feel it.
And the worst part?
I let myself believe that not knowing is safer than finding out.
Because right now, ignorance is the only thing holding me together.