DIYA'S POV
The walk back to my room felt endless.
My body moved on autopilot—one foot in front of the other, eyes fixed ahead but seeing nothing. When I finally reached my dorm, my roommate greeted me with cheerful chatter about some upcoming event.
"Hey, how did it go?"
I forced a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Fine."
The word tasted like ash.
I collapsed onto my bed, her voice fading into white noise as I replayed the scene at the gate—the way Maddy's face had darkened, the sharpness in his voice, the weight of that bottle slipping from my fingers.
"She won't stop hoping."
The words carved themselves into my ribs, sharp and unforgiving.
Evening bled into night. My phone buzzed—once, twice.
Maddy: I took the bottle.
A photo followed. His hand gripping it tightly, his name glaring back at me in bold letters.
Maddy: Thank you.
I stared at the screen until the letters blurred.
Me: Ok.
The phone rang almost instantly.
I let it.
Three times he called. Three times I hesitated.
The fourth, I answered.
"Hello?" My voice was hollow.
"Hey," he said, too soft, too careful. "Why weren't you picking up?"
"My phone was on silent. Didn't notice."
A pause. A sigh. "Oh. Okay."
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Then—his voice brightened, launching into some story about his friends, a mess hall mishap, a meme he'd seen. He was trying. Trying to be light, trying to make me laugh like he used to.
But the laughter never came.
"I'm not feeling well," I murmured. "I think I'll sleep early."
His tone shifted instantly. "What happened? Are you okay?"
And that's when it struck me—he hadn't even looked at me today.
Not really.
The Maddy I knew would've noticed the pallor of my skin, the way I hunched over slightly, the tremor in my hands. He would've seen me.
Now?
Now he was just hearing me.
"Just tired," I whispered.
"Okay. Text me if you need anything, alright?"
"Hmm."
"Good night."
"Good night."
The call ended. I curled into myself, the cramps in my stomach dull compared to the ache in my chest.
Because the cruelest realization wasn't that he didn't know.
It was that he'd stopped looking.
MADDY'S POV
The bottle sat on my desk, taunting me.
Her handwriting on the delivery slip. Her thoughtfulness in replacing what I'd lost. Her hope—the hope I kept crushing, over and over.
I'd fucked up today. Badly.
The way she'd looked at me—like I'd struck her—haunted me. So I'd called. Tried to fix it with jokes, with normalcy, with anything to erase the hurt in her voice.
But her "I'm not feeling well" had sent a jolt through me.
Was she sick? Had she been in pain all day?
I hadn't noticed.
Why hadn't I noticed?
I scrolled through our messages, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I should've asked more. Should've pushed. Should've shown up at her door just to see her.
But I didn't.
Because the truth was, part of me was afraid to look too closely.
Afraid of what I'd see—the love I didn't deserve.
Afraid of what I'd lose if I let myself fall back into her eyes.
So I chose the silence.
And hated myself for it.