[Emily’s POV]

Monday morning arrives with all the subtlety of a freight train, and I’m staring at my phone like it might spontaneously combust or reveal that this is all an elaborate prank.

The text from Maddie sits there, mocking me with its brevity: ‘I’m staying here. I’m transferring to Victoria’s program. We’re not good for each other right now. I’m sorry.’

Four sentences. She ended our entire relationship in four sentences, which is fewer words than I use to order coffee. I’ve written longer grocery lists. I’ve sent longer texts to my mother about what I want for dinner.

I hit the call button with perhaps more force than necessary, pressing the phone to my ear like I’m trying to will Maddie into answering through sheer determination. It rings once, twice, three times, and then—voicemail.

Her voice comes through, cheerful and pre-recorded and utterly useless. “Hey, you’ve reached Maddie. Leave a message.”

“Maddie, what the hell?” I start, then stop because screaming into someone’s voicemail isn’t exactly productive. “Call me back. Please. We need to talk about this. You can’t just—” The beep cuts me off mid-ramble, which is probably merciful.

I try texting instead. ‘We need to talk. Call me. Send. Maddie, please.’ Send. This is ridiculous. Send. ‘I know you’re seeing these.’ Send. Each message delivers with that optimistic little swoosh sound, like they’re accomplishing something instead of disappearing into the void.

By noon, I’ve sent approximately seventeen texts and called five more times, each attempt more desperate than the last. I’m officially that person now, the one who can’t take a hint, even though this isn’t a hint—it’s a goddamn billboard.

I pace our dorm room like a caged animal. Back and forth, back and forth, wearing a path in the already questionable carpeting.

My phone stays glued to my hand, screen-up, volume on max, because maybe the problem is I’m not paying enough attention. Maybe if I stare at it hard enough, Maddie will magically respond.

The door opens around three, and Ava walks in looking concerned, which makes sense because I’m pretty sure I look unhinged. She takes one look at me—still pacing, still clutching my phone like a lifeline—and closes the door carefully behind her.

“Emily,” she says gently, which is Ava-speak for ‘you look like you’re having a mental breakdown and I’m worried.’ “What happened?”

I thrust my phone at her without saying anything because my voice isn’t quite working right. Ava reads the text, and I watch her face go through about seventeen different expressions, landing somewhere between sympathetic and pissed off.

“Maddie sent that?” Ava hands my phone back like it might bite her, handling it with the caution usually reserved for unexploded ordinance. “That’s… wow. That’s cold.”

“She thinks she’s doing me a favor,” I say, my voice cracking embarrassingly. “She thinks leaving is helping somehow. That we’re toxic or broken or whatever bullshit David probably fed her.”

Ava sits down on her bed, patting the space beside her in a way that suggests I should stop pacing before I wear a hole through to the floor below. “She’s protecting you in the most destructive way possible. That tracks.”

I sit because standing feels exhausting suddenly. “That’s what makes it worse. If she was just giving up, I could be angry. But she genuinely thinks this is the right thing. She thinks she’s saving me.”

“Then you need to tell her she’s wrong.” Ava says it like it’s simple, like convincing Maddie of anything that has ever been simple. “In person. You’re not going to fix this over text.”

‘Maddie, you’re making a mistake.’ Too accusatory. ‘Maddie, I love you.’ Too vague. ‘Maddie, David’s manipulating you.’ Too confrontational.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify