Saturday bled into Sunday like ink spilling across paper—slow, dark, and irreversible.
Emily barely slept the night before. Her pillow was still damp at the corners, but she forced herself out of bed anyway. The walls of her dorm room had begun to feel like a prison, closing in tighter every time she avoided looking at her phone. The sketch Riley gave her—the one tucked under her pillow—remained untouched. It hurt too much to look at.
She pulled on a hoodie, tugging it over her head like armor, and stepped into the hallway. It felt like walking into a battlefield, every corner filled with unspoken things. Ghosts of their laughter. Their quiet conversations. The kiss. The silence that came after.
Her heart stuttered as she passed the common area.
That's when she saw Riley.
Riley was seated with a small group near the vending machines—a couple of students Emily vaguely recognized from art class, plus a new girl with purple braids and a lip ring. They were laughing. Talking. Riley had her sketchpad open, flipping through it with a sort of casual grace that looked too effortless to be real.
Emily slowed. Not enough to stop. Just enough to be noticed.
And Riley noticed.
Her hand froze mid-page-turn. Her laugh dulled. Their eyes locked for one heartbeat—and then Riley looked away.
Emily didn't stop walking. She couldn't.
The hallway felt colder now. Like it had swallowed something warm and left the shell behind.
Her thoughts spun in circles. Was Riley moving on? Were they pretending? Was she pretending?
She shouldn't feel this angry. Or jealous. Or anything, really. It wasn't like they broke up. They weren't even officially together. They just weren't… allowed.
But it didn't make this easier.
It didn't stop the sharp twist in her stomach when one of the girls in Riley's group leaned in and touched her wrist.
It didn't stop the voice in her head whispering, she's slipping away from you.
Riley felt it too.
She didn't mean to be out here. Not really. But after three days of solitude and sadness, Opal—her roommate—had dragged her down to the common room, practically bribing her with snacks and stupid memes.
"It'll be chill," Opal had promised. "Just art kids and coffee. You need people who don't act like the world's ending."
And it had been okay. For a while.
She had even smiled.
But then she saw her.
Emily. Hood up, arms crossed, eyes haunted.
Riley had looked up too late, and their gaze caught like wires sparking—too brief, too intense, too much. She didn't even remember what page her sketchpad was on.
She just knew Emily looked heartbroken.
And it hurt.
Across the room, Dylan leaned back against a worn-out couch with the casual arrogance of someone who thrived on other people's misery. He watched the entire scene unfold—the awkward pass-by, the eye contact, the stilted body language—and a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"Oh, the drama," he muttered, just loud enough for the guy beside him to hear. "What's a Sunday without some forbidden romance tension?"
His crew chuckled, not because it was funny, but because they knew better than not to laugh.
Dylan thrived in chaos. He didn't even need to light fires anymore—he just watched the smoke rise from the ones he'd already started.
Emily sat at the edge of the courtyard, knees pulled close to her chest. She stared at the cracked stone tiles, the soft rustle of wind in the trees doing nothing to quiet her thoughts.
She kept replaying the look in Riley's eyes. It wasn't anger. It wasn't happiness either. Just… neutral. Too neutral. Like Emily didn't matter anymore.
She knew that wasn't fair.
But feelings weren't rational. And hers were loud and tangled and painful.
She hadn't even spoken to Riley since the teacher's warning. The forced distance felt like drowning in silence. The kind of silence that fills a room when the music stops but you're still dancing in your head.
Inside, Riley excused herself from the group. No one questioned her—though Opal raised an eyebrow.
"You good?" she asked softly, nudging Riley's knee.
Riley forced a smile. "Yeah. Just need air."
But really, she needed to breathe without pretending she was okay. Without pretending that seeing Emily didn't make her want to scream and cry and run into her arms all at once.
She stepped out into the courtyard, her boots crunching lightly against fallen leaves.
And there she was.
Emily didn't hear her at first.
Riley hovered near the entrance, watching the way Emily's fingers toyed with a loose string on her hoodie. How her foot tapped the ground like a ticking clock.
She considered walking away.
But something in her cracked.
"Hey," she said quietly.
Emily looked up, startled. Her eyes widened, then shuttered.
"Oh," she said. "Hey."
Riley walked over, slow and unsure, and sat on the opposite edge of the bench. The distance between them felt like miles.
"You looked… busy," Emily said, instantly hating the words as they left her mouth.
Riley winced. "I wasn't. Just… trying to feel normal, I guess."
Emily nodded, eyes on the ground. "Right."
Silence stretched.
Riley bit her lip. "I didn't know you'd be down here."
"You didn't have to avoid me," Emily whispered.
"I wasn't avoiding you," Riley said quickly, then paused. "Okay, maybe I was. But not because I wanted to."
Emily looked up then. Really looked.
Riley looked just as wrecked as she felt.
"I hate this," Emily admitted, voice cracking.
Riley nodded, her eyes burning. "Me too."
"I feel like you're slipping away," Emily said.
"I feel like I'm being torn in half," Riley replied.
The silence that followed was softer. Not empty—just heavy with things unsaid.
Back inside, Dylan peeked through the window.
"Well, well," he said with a low whistle. "Looks like the star-crossed lovers are cracking under the pressure."
His words were casual, but his eyes glittered with something sharper.
One of his friends nudged him. "Should we stir the pot?"
Dylan smirked. "Not yet. Let them believe they're healing. It's more fun when you break them after they think they're safe."
Emily and Riley didn't speak much more that day. But something shifted.
They didn't fix anything. They didn't hold hands or promise to fight the world.
But they saw each other.
They remembered what it felt like to matter.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.