6
The coffee stain spread across Gracey's skirt like an ugly bruise, and the silence that followed was heavier than the spill itself.
I froze, napkin in hand, half-bent toward her.
The guy beside her—our so-called "team partner"—snorted under his breath, clearly amused at my mistake.
"Mike," Gracey said sharply, brushing my hand away before I could dab again.
Her eyes burned into mine, not just annoyed but wounded, as though the accident had dug up more than a simple mess.
"You've done enough."Gracey's voice cracked as she shouted at me, the sound hitting harder than I expected.
I pulled back, heat rising to my face, though a deeper ache simmered beneath the embarrassment.
That brief touch—her skin against mine—had reminded me of something I thought was lost. Familiar warmth. A tether.I was hurt, but I kept it to myself.
Her reaction cut deeper than I wanted to admit, yet I didn't show it.
Instead, I forced a calm look, pretending I was fine.
The sting stayed in my chest, but I pushed it down.I muttered an apology for the coffee, meaning it but also wanting to end the moment.
It wasn't the first time I had said sorry to her, and I knew it wouldn't be the last.
Each apology felt heavier, as if it carried more than just the mistake at hand.
Still, I said it and moved on.What I really came for still lingered on my tongue.
Even after the glare, even after the tension, I couldn't just walk away.
I had to ask her, even if it felt like bad timing.
So I steadied myself and spoke.My voice was careful, though I tried to make it sound normal.It wasn't easy to stand there, pretending I wasn't hurt.
But pretending was better than breaking.
So I hid the pain, gave my apology,
and still asked for the one thing I came to her for.
I cleared my throat, forcing the tension down, and shifted the conversation back to the reason we were all here.
"Alright then," I said evenly, "what part of the group project do you want me to handle.
Gracey's eyes flicked toward me, sharp at first, then softer. But softness from her didn't mean peace—it only made it worse.
Because it reminded me of who she used to be, the girl who laughed with me in crowded hallways.
who trusted me with parts of herself I can't ever give back.
She looked away quickly, and I knew why. It was easier to look anywhere but at me.
Our "team partner" laughed again, pretending it was at something on his phone, but I could feel his smirk digging into my back.
It made the air heavier. It made me wish I'd walked out instead of sitting down in this cursed seat.
Gracey finally spoke, her tone clipped, as if keeping me at arm's length even in words. "Just handle the research section. That's all."
I nodded, though the simple task sounded like both a command and a dismissal.
But i had this unsettling spirit.
Gracey wasn't just avoiding me—she was protecting herself from me.
That knowledge sat heavier than any silence, heavier than any bruise.
"Fine," I said at last, the word dragged out with more bite than I intended. It slipped through my teeth in a low, almost seductive defiance—half anger, half surrender.
The kind of tone that tried to mask how broken I felt, like a wounded pup baring its teeth but still hoping to be held.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a few crumpled bills, and placed them gently on the bench beside her.
"For the skirt,"
I muttered, the money landing like a weak apology.But something else fell with it. A folded piece of paper I hadn't realized was tucked in between the notes.
My heart sank as I recognized it immediately—the sketch I had made in class days ago.
Gracey, half-turned, her profile caught in a moment of distraction, drawn with the same care I used to give her when she was mine.
She noticed it too.
Her fingers hesitated over the bills, brushing the edge of the paper, though she didn't unfold it. Not yet.
I didn't stay long enough to see if she would.
Without another word, I turned, shoving my hands deep into my pockets.
Each step away from her felt heavier, pulling me deeper into the weight of the moment.
I didn't look back. Not at her, not at the stain, not at the sketch. I walked straight to my dorm, where the ache would follow me in quiet shadows.