~after some days~
I was on leave for 2 days as I was not feeling well. I felt like my insides were burning and i had a fever. Ethan kept messaging me, i was too tired to respond.
~in class~
I made my way to the class feeling a bit tired and exhausted from all the bed rest, that is when I saw him. He was in the same seat, same posture, like he'd been waiting, like nothing had changed. I looked away before he could catch me staring and walked past him without slowing down.
I chose the window seat again—the same one as yesterday. Not his. Not anymore. I opened my notebook, flipped a page, and picked up my pen even though class hadn't started. Anything to look busy. Anything to avoid him.
From the corner of my eyes, I saw him coming towards me- "Ivy."
I didn't respond.
"Ivy."
Closer this time.
Still nothing.
"You're really going to pretend I'm not here?"
My pen moved across the page—no words, just lines. Something to do with my hands so I didn't look at him.
"I'm talking to you."
"And I'm not," I replied calmly, still not looking up.
There was a pause. Small, but I felt it.
"Why weren't you here for the past 2 days" He asked sounding a bit concerned.
"That's none of your business" I said looking at him
"It is my business if it involves you" He retorted back.
"I had a fever" I said, no fight left in me.
"Why didn't you tell me, you could have texted me, i would have bought you medicines." he said genuinely worried.
"No need, I'm better now, thanks for asking about my well-being, can you go now?" i said wanting to end this conversation.
"So that's it?" he asked. "You're just… done talking?"
"I didn't say that."
"Then what are you doing?"
I stopped writing and finally looked up at him. "I'm choosing not to talk."
"That sounds the same."
"It's not."
"How?"
"Because I'm still here."
That threw him off, just a little. I saw it in the way his expression shifted before he covered it.
"Then act like it," he said.
"I am," I replied, looking back down.
A chair scraped beside me. Of course he sat there anyway.
"You changed seats," he said.
No answer.
"You're not even going to explain that?"
"It's a seat."
"That wasn't your answer that day."
I exhaled quietly. "Why does it matter so much?"
He leaned back slightly, watching me. "Because you used to sit with me."
"Used to."
"Yeah."
"And now I don't."
"And now you don't."
Silence stretched between us.
"Why are you doing this? You're doing this on purpose," he said.
I looked at him. "Yes, I'm."
"At least you're honest."
"At least I'm not pretending it didn't happen."
That hit him. I saw it—the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his expression hardened for just a second before he smoothed it out.
"Okay," he said.
That word again. Too calm. Too controlled.
"What?" I asked.
"Okay," he repeated. "You're upset. I get it."
"You don't."
"I do."
"No," I said, finally meeting his eyes properly. "If you did, you wouldn't keep acting like it's nothing."
"It is nothing."
I let out a short, quiet laugh. "See?"
"What?"
"That. That's exactly what I mean."
He leaned forward slightly. "Then tell me what it is."
I hesitated, hating how small it sounded even in my head. "It's… confusing."
"How?"
"You say things like they matter," I said, "and then you act like they don't, you act like I don't matter to you."
His expression shifted again, more subtle this time. "I never said you didn't matter."
"You didn't have to, I felt it."
Silence.
"That's not fair," he said.
"Neither is this."
Another pause.
"Read the note," he said.
My eyes flickered for a second before I looked away. "I don't want to."
"Why?"
"Because it won't change anything."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"You didn't even read it."
"I don't need to."
"That's not how this works."
I looked at him again. "And how does it work?"
"You don't just shut me out and decide what I meant."
"And you don't get to decide how I feel."
That stopped him. For a moment, he didn't have anything to say. Then he reached into his bag, pulled out the folded paper, and placed it on my notebook.
"Then don't decide," he said quietly. "Just read."
I stared at it. My name written on the front. Just that.
My fingers hovered over it.
"Ivy," he said, softer this time. "I'm not asking for much."
That was what got me.
I picked it up and opened it.
"I didn't mean to make you feel like that.
I'm not good at explaining things.
But I'm not lying to you."
I read it twice before folding it again and placing it back on the table.
Silence.
"Well?" he asked.
I looked at him. "I believe you."
His expression softened slightly, just for a second.
"But that doesn't fix it," I added.
There it was again—that shift.
"It's not supposed to fix everything," he said. "It's just supposed to make you understand."
"I do understand."
"Then why are you still like this?"
I paused. The answer was simple, even if I didn't want it to be.
"Because it still hurt."
That was it.
That was the truth.
He didn't interrupt this time. Didn't dismiss it. He just looked at me.
"I didn't think it would," he said quietly.
"That's the problem."
Silence again.
"I'm trying, Ivy."
"I can see that."
"Then meet me halfway."
I held his gaze. "I am."
"How?"
"I didn't walk away."
That landed.
He nodded slowly. "Okay."
This time, it felt different.
After class, I didn't rush out. I packed slowly, aware that he was still there, still waiting.
"You're not running today," he said.
"I didn't run that day "
"You kind of did."
I shrugged. "Maybe."
There was a small pause before he spoke again. "Can I walk with you?"
I hesitated.
Then, "Okay."
We walked out together, not too close, not too far. Just side by side.
"You're still mad," he said.
"I'm not."
"What are you then?"
I thought for a moment. "Careful."
He glanced at me. "Careful?"
"With everything."
There was a pause.
"I don't like that," he said.
"I know."
~at home~
My dad sat at the table, eyes fixed on his phone this time instead of the newspaper.
"Sit," my mom said, placing food in front of me.
I did.
"Your exams are coming up, right?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"You should focus more," she added.
"I am."
She nodded, already turning back to the kitchen.
I glanced at my dad. "I got good marks on my last submission," I said, not sure why I even said it.
"Hmm," he replied, not looking up.
That was it.
No question.
No reaction.
Nothing.
I stared at my plate for a second longer than I should have, the small piece of pride I had felt earlier fading quietly.
My brother kept talking. My mom kept moving around. The TV kept playing.
Everything continued.
Like it didn't matter.
Like I didn't matter.
I picked up my spoon and started eating without saying anything else.
After dinner, I went back to my room and sat down on the floor again, picking up the yarn where I had left it. The stitches came out slower this time.
Because today—
it wasn't just him that made me feel invisible.
And somehow,
that made everything hurt a little more.