~the next day~
I didn't want to see him.
But I knew I would. That was the worst part.
No matter how much I told myself I wouldn't look—
I always did.
And there he was.
Same place.
Same seat.
Like nothing had changed.
Like yesterday didn't exist.
Like I didn't know what I knew now.
I slowed down at the door.
Just for a second.
Then I walked past him.
Didn't stop, didn't look.
I chose a seat near the window.
Not mine.
Not his.
Just—
somewhere else.
I sat down. Opened my notebook.
Focused.
Or at least pretended to be.
I started writing my notes.
"Today, we will assign group partners for this room project. You have to create a living room with tall arches, a soft color scheme, and large windows." Mrs. Samantha said.
"So write a list of the groups and hand them to me," she added.
"Ivy," I heard my name. I knew who it was without looking at him.
I didn't respond.
I heard the chair scrape.
Footsteps.
Closer.
"Ivy."
I kept my eyes on the page.
My pen moved.
Even though I wasn't writing anything.
"Ivy, will you be my partner in this project?" he asked, now closer to me.
"No," I said firmly.
"But you have to choose a person with you, and I'm choosing you to pair up with."
I looked at him, "So what, I can do the project alone. I don't need you." I said, looking up.
"Ma'am, can we do this project alone, since I live far from others, so I can't have any partner in that matter?" I asked, looking past him towards the professor.
"Sure, Ivy," she smiled at me.
She knew that at least one person in the class would be alone, per the calculation.
I looked back at him, "Problem solved, now leave so that I can study."
"Ivy," he called again. This time I didn't answer him. he was a lot closer now.
I didn't respond.
"Are you ignoring me now?"
Silence.
Because yes.
I was.
He stood there for a few seconds.
Waiting.
Expecting me to react.
I didn't.
"Come sit there," he said.
Nothing.
"Ivy."
Still nothing.
I could feel it now.
The shift in his tone.
Less patient. More irritated.
"Don't do this," he muttered.
My fingers tightened slightly around my pen.
But I didn't look up.
Didn't answer.
After a moment—
He walked away. I exhaled quietly. But it didn't feel like relief. It felt like something sitting in my chest. Heavy.
I tried to focus. I really did. But I could feel it.
His eyes. On me. Again.
And again.
Every time I shifted.
Every time I moved.
He was looking.
And every time— I didn't look back.
"Miss Ivy, can you answer this?"
I blinked.
I stood up slowly. I answered.
Sat back down.
And for a second—
I almost turned toward him.
Almost.
But I stopped myself.
Because I knew—
if I looked—
I'd break.
~mid-class~
I felt something thrown on my back.
I looked to my left—a letter. I knew who it was from, but I didn't open it.
Another one hit me.
I stared at it for a few seconds.
Then—
I pushed it aside.
Didn't open it.
Didn't read it.
Didn't give him that.
A few seconds later—
another one.
I clenched my jaw.
This time—
I didn't even look.
I just moved it further away.
Like it didn't matter.
Like he didn't matter.
But my heart—
didn't agree.
~after class~
I packed my bag quickly. Faster than usual.
"Ivy."
I stood up. Ignored the voice.
"Ivy, wait."
I walked. Faster.
Footsteps behind me. Of course.
He caught up easily.
"Can you stop for a second?"
I didn't.
"Ivy."
He caught my wrists and turned me around.
"Ivy, listen, I-"
"What do you WANT?" I said, clearly annoyed and angry now.
My voice came out colder than I expected.
"Why are you doing this?"
I let out a small breath.
"Doing what?"
"This," he gestured between us.
"I'm talking to you, and you're acting like I don't exist."
I looked at him.
"That's how it feels, right?" I asked quietly. He frowned. "What do you mean?"
"When you act like things don't matter," I said.
"Like they didn't happen."
His grip on my wrist loosened.
"I told you—"
"That it didn't mean anything," I finished for him.
Silence.
"I heard you."
"Ivy—"
I pulled my hand back.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You're not even letting me explain."
I stopped and turned to face him, "Explain," I said, crossing my arms.
"I didn't mean it like that."
"That's your explanation?" I scoffed.
"No, look at me."
I didn't.
He stepped closer.
"Looking at me would be a good start."
I forced myself to meet his eyes.
And immediately—
I regretted it.
Because for a second—
Everything felt like before.
And I hated that.
"I like you," he said.
There it was.
Again.
"I don't know what you want me to do with that," I replied.
"Stop acting like I did something horrible."
My chest tightened.
"You didn't do something horrible," I said.
"Then what's the problem?"
I hesitated.
"You made it feel like nothing," I said quietly. "And it wasn't nothing to me."
Silence.
For a second—
He didn't say anything.
Then—
"You're overthinking again."
Of course.
That again.
I nodded slowly.
"Okay."
That was it.
No argument.
No explanation.
Just—
okay.
That seemed to confuse him.
"You're just going to say okay?"he asked.
"What else is there to say? You are right, I'm overthinking."
"Ivy—"
"I have to go."
And this time—
I didn't stop.
~Bus Ride~
I sat by the window. Like always.
But everything felt different.
Quieter.
My phone buzzed.
I didn't check it.
Another buzz.
Then another.
I knew it was him.
Of course it was.
After a minute—
I looked.
Ethan:
Can you not ignore me like this?
Ethan:
Just talk to me.
Ethan:
Ivy.
I stared at the messages.
Then—
locked my phone.
I didn't reply. I was done with his bullshit.
~at home~
I sat on the floor again, yarn in my hands, the crochet hook resting between my fingers—one stitch, then another—slow, careful, but uneven. My mind wasn't steady enough for clean loops tonight.
"Dinner's ready!"
My mom's voice came from the kitchen, warm and familiar, cutting through the quiet of my room.
"I'm coming!" I called back, but I didn't move. I just sat there, watching the yarn slip slightly through my fingers.
"Ivy!" my brother shouted a second later, louder this time. "If you don't come now, I'm eating your share."
A small smile almost formed on my lips. "Don't you dare, I'll punch you," I muttered under my breath.
That's how it always was—loud, messy, full of interruptions. Someone is always talking, someone is always calling out. There was never silence in this house. Never enough space for thoughts to sit too long.
And maybe that's why this felt so different.
So heavy.
Because here, alone in my room, everything caught up to me.
I finally stood up and walked to the dining table. My dad was already seated, a newspaper in one hand.
"Late again," he said without looking up.
"I was studying," I replied.
"Hmm."
That was all. Not questioning, not pushing. Just… there.
My mom placed the food on the table and glanced at me. "Eat before it gets cold."
I nodded and sat down. My brother was already talking about something random, something loud and unimportant—but he spoke as if it mattered. And everyone listened, even if they didn't really respond.
I stayed quiet, picking at my food.
"You're very silent today," my mom said after a while.
"I'm always like this."
"Not this much."
I shrugged. "I'm just tired."
She looked at me like she wanted to ask more, but she didn't. No one did.
And somehow, that made it easier.
Because I didn't have to explain something I didn't even understand myself.
After dinner, I went back to my room and closed the door. I sat down in the same spot, picked up the yarn again, and tried to continue the pattern.
One stitch.
Then another.
And suddenly, it hit me.
The difference.
Here, things were simple. Predictable. Even the silence had a place.
But with him, nothing stayed the same.
One moment, he felt close.
The next, like I had imagined, everything.
I tightened the yarn too much. The loop didn't form.
I paused, loosened it, and tried again.
Because that's what I always did.
Fix it. Adjust it. Make it work.
But this time—
I stopped.
Because for the first time, I wasn't sure if I was fixing the right thing.