Amber and I end up sitting on the low concrete steps behind the arts building, the ones people use when they want quiet without being completely alone. The sun is already dropping, light thinning into that muted gold that makes everything feel softer than it is.
I’m hugging my backpack to my chest like a shield.
Amber sits beside me with her legs stretched out, scrolling on her phone, pretending not to be waiting for something.
Neither of us talks for a full minute.
Then she sighs. “Okay. This is getting awkward.”
I snort quietly. “You’re the queen of awkward now?”
She nudges my shoe with hers. “Careful. I can still be mean if you want.”
“I believe you,” I say.
She smiles faintly, then locks her phone and looks at me. “You don’t trust me.”
It’s not a question.
“No,” I admit.
She nods. “Good. That means you’re not stupid.”
I blink. “Was that supposed to help?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m not here to rewrite history.”
I study her face. Without the crowd, without the sharp smiles and noise, she looks… younger. Tired. Human.
“Why did you defend me?” I ask quietly. “Yesterday. You didn’t have to.”
She leans back on her hands. “I know.”
“Then why?”
She hesitates.
I wait.
“I’m not good at being liked,” she says finally.
The words surprise me so much I actually laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” she replies flatly. “I’m good at being wanted. There’s a difference.”
I turn fully toward her. “Explain.”
She shrugs. “People like what I represent. Confidence. Status. Access. They like standing next to me.”
“And you?” I ask.
“They don’t really know me,” she says. “And I don’t really let them.”
I frown. “That doesn’t make sense. You’re always surrounded.”
“Exactly,” she says. “It’s loud enough that no one notices when I’m lonely.”
That hits somewhere uncomfortable.
“You think I didn’t notice you and Chase?” she continues, eyes fixed on the pavement. “How he looked at you?”
I tense. “Amber—”
“I’m not going there,” she interrupts. “Not like that. I just—” She exhales. “It messed with my head.”
“How?” I ask despite myself.
“Because you didn’t need to perform,” she says. “You didn’t chase him. You didn’t manipulate. You were just… there.”
I swallow. “That didn’t save me.”
“No,” she agrees softly. “But it made you real.”
Silence settles between us.
“I hated you for that,” Amber admits. “Not because you were better. But because you were honest.”
I stare at her. “You bullied me because I was honest?”
She winces. “When you put it like that, I sound insane.”
“You kind of were,” I say.
She huffs a laugh. “Fair.”
We sit there, the campus noises fading into the background.
“I never wanted to be the villain,” Amber says. “I just didn’t know how to be anything else.”
I pick at the strap of my backpack. “You hurt me.”
“I know,” she says immediately. “And I won’t defend it.”
I look at her, really look at her, and for the first time I don’t feel the urge to brace myself.
“What do you want from me?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she replies. “I don’t expect friendship. Or forgiveness.”
“Then why keep showing up?” I press.
She turns to me. “Because I see you disappearing. And I know what that looks like.”
My chest tightens. “You don’t know me.”
“No,” she agrees. “But I know that look in the mirror.”
I shake my head. “You don’t seem like someone who disappears.”
“That’s because I hide it better,” she says. “You shut down. I double down.”
“On what?”
“On being perfect,” she replies. “On being untouchable. On being desirable.”
The word hangs heavy.
“You think I don’t feel disposable?” she continues. “You think I don’t wake up wondering if people would still care if I stopped being… this?”
She gestures vaguely at herself.
“I thought confidence was natural to you,” I admit.
She laughs, sharp. “Confidence is a costume. You wear it long enough, people forget to ask what’s underneath.”
I feel something shift in my chest.
“I don’t know how to do that,” I say quietly. “Pretend.”
She tilts her head. “You do. You just pretend to be okay.”
I don’t respond.
“You’re starving yourself again,” Amber says suddenly.
My breath catches. “Don’t.”
“I’m not judging,” she says. “I’m noticing.”
I stand abruptly. “That’s not your place.”
She stands too, but she doesn’t crowd me. “You think I didn’t notice when you stopped eating lunch?”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It means you’re punishing yourself,” she says. “And I know what that looks like too.”
I laugh shakily. “You know everything now?”
“No,” she says. “I just know pain when I see it.”
I look away, my vision blurring. “I’m fine.”
She doesn’t argue.
“I don’t want to be saved,” I say instead. “I don’t want another person trying to fix me.”
“I’m not here to fix you,” Amber says. “I’m here to sit with you.”
I swallow hard. “Why?”
“Because no one did that for me,” she answers. “And I wish someone had.”
We stand there, close but not touching, the air between us charged with things we’re both too tired to pretend aren’t real.
“I don’t forgive you,” I say again.
“I know,” she replies.
“But I don’t want to hate you anymore,” I add.
Her shoulders drop slightly. “That’s… more than I expected.”
I hesitate, then say, “You surprised me.”
She smirks faintly. “I’m full of disappointments and surprises.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” I warn.
She raises two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“I don’t think you were ever a scout.”
“Absolutely not,” she agrees.
We sit back down, this time closer, not touching but not guarded either.
“I don’t know where this goes,” I admit.
“Me neither,” Amber says. “But it doesn’t have to go anywhere yet.”
I nod slowly.
For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like I’m bracing for impact.
I feel… heard.
And that scares me almost as much as it comforts me.
Because if Amber—of all people—can see me clearly now, it means I’ve been visible this whole time.
And maybe I wasn’t as alone as I thought.
Maybe I just didn’t know where to look.