The walk out of the art room was quiet. Too quiet.
Emily didn't say a word. Riley didn't either.
Their footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor, like each step was a reminder of the space that had suddenly opened between them—wide and impossible. They didn't look at each other. Not really. Just flickers of glances that didn't meet, didn't hold, didn't linger like they used to.
They reached the dormitory hallway, the buzzing fluorescent lights overhead doing nothing to soften the heavy silence between them.
"Guess I'll…" Emily started, but her voice cracked halfway through. She cleared her throat. "I'll head in."
Riley nodded once. "Yeah. Me too."
And that was it.
No goodnight. No lingering touch. No whispered promises.
Just doors closing.
And then—emptiness.
Emily dropped her bag to the floor and slumped onto her bed. The silence in her dorm was suffocating. Her roommate wasn't around, probably out studying or grabbing food, which left her alone with her thoughts. And they were loud. Deafening.
The conversation with Ms. Halden kept playing in her mind like a broken record. "Pause your activities." "Take some space." "I'll have no choice but to report everything."
It sounded so rational when she said it. So protective. But now that Emily sat here, hugging her knees to her chest, it just felt cruel. Like someone had put a pause on her heart and expected it to keep beating like nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
She tried to breathe through it. She tried journaling. She even opened Riley's contact on her phone a dozen times, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, only to lock it again. No messages sent. Just silence.
Riley wasn't doing any better.
Her dorm was cluttered with sketches and undone canvases—evidence of her usual rhythm. But today, everything felt wrong. Her hand trembled when she tried to draw. Nothing looked right. Nothing made sense.
The worst part? She felt like she was grieving something that hadn't even ended. Not officially. They hadn't broken up. Not really. But that forced distance—god, it felt like mourning. And she didn't know how to stop it.
She wanted to run to Emily's room. Wanted to knock. To say "screw the school" and kiss her like nothing else mattered.
But she couldn't. Not when Ms. Halden's warning still rang in her ears.
If it gets to the principal, I'm out. And I'll report everything.
So she sat on the floor of her room, staring at her half-finished drawing of Emily, the one she had started before everything went sideways.
It felt like looking at a ghost.
Emily cried that night.
Not loudly. Not the kind of sobbing that tore through walls.
Just the quiet kind—the kind that happened into a pillow, muffled and lonely. The kind that made your chest ache and your throat tighten. The kind that made the whole world feel heavy.
She didn't want to cry. She wanted to be strong. Wanted to believe that Riley was just down the hall, that this would pass, that it wasn't the end.
But it felt like a beginning of something worse—something cold and slow and silent.
Loneliness crept in like a fog.
And the worst part? She couldn't even talk about it. Not openly. Not without risking everything.
She wiped her tears with her sleeve, heart pounding, whispering into the dark:
"I miss you."
Days passed.
But they didn't really pass—they dragged.
Emily and Riley started avoiding each other. Not intentionally. At least, that's what they told themselves.
But every time they saw each other in the hallway, one would duck into a side corridor or bury their face in a book. Every shared class was a masterclass in avoidance—no eye contact, no words, no chance to break the barrier growing between them.
It was hell.
Riley started skipping lunch in the cafeteria. Emily stopped going to the library in the evenings, because that used to be their thing. Everything that reminded them of us now burned.
People noticed. Of course they did.
Whispers started again. This time softer. Confused.
"I thought they were a thing."
"Did they break up?"
"Maybe the teacher cracked down on them?"
"I heard one of them cried in class last week."
Riley heard it all. And she didn't care what people said.
What hurt more was the empty space beside her. The space Emily used to fill.
Saturday came.
No classes. No expectations.
Just time—and too much of it.
Emily spent most of the day lying in bed, headphones in but no music playing. Her mind kept circling around Riley like a storm she couldn't escape. Her stomach twisted with the urge to text her, to say anything. But she didn't want to be the one to break the rule first.
Riley spent the afternoon staring at the sketch of Emily she still hadn't finished. She thought maybe if she added to it, she'd feel closer again. But every pencil stroke felt like betrayal—like touching something she wasn't supposed to anymore.
By evening, they were both in their rooms again, alone, crying in separate corners of the same dormitory building. Hearts beating at the same rhythm. Grieving each other without ever saying goodbye.