[Emily’s POV]

Three hours in the library pretending to study cellular respiration, and by the time I head back it’s past seven. I’m expecting the usual: Maddie either gone or emotionally unavailable.

Instead, I open the door to find her humming at her desk with upbeat music playing. She looks up and smiles—not the performance piece she’s been wearing, but something genuine. The cognitive dissonance is strong enough that I consider checking the room number.

“Hey,” she says, setting down her highlighter. “How was the library? Get anything done?”

The question sounds normal—like we’re actual roommates, friends, couple, instead of performing elaborate avoidance. I drop my bag, watching for signs of a prank.

“It was fine. Pretended to study, mostly succeeded.” I move into the room. “How was practice?”

“Good, actually.” She stretches with genuine enthusiasm. “Landed that triple Lutz I’ve been struggling with. Clean rotation, solid landing.”

Something in my chest loosens. “That’s amazing. What was the setup?” I get my jacket off, not even looking away from her, because I can barely believe it.

She launches into technical details, hands moving. “Coach stopped the music and actually clapped.”

“Are you going to add it to Regionals?” I ask, sitting on my bed.

“Maybe. We’d have to rework the transition.” She turns toward me, animated. “Coach wants to talk tomorrow.”

We’re having an actual conversation—the kind that used to be normal. It feels like finding something I’d lost, and I’m trying not to examine this gift horse’s mouth.

“I’m starving,” Maddie announces, grabbing her phone like she’s solving world hunger through mobile ordering. “Want to order Thai food?”

Thai food is our thing—has been since we discovered a shared addiction back when we were kids, that would make any cardiologist weep.

The fact that she’s suggesting it feels monumental, like planting a flag in normalcy territory after weeks in the wilderness.

“Yeah, definitely.” I move to her bed, sitting close while we scroll through the menu like civilized people who actually like each other.

“Spring rolls or dumplings?” she asks, thumb hovering over the screen like this is a life-or-death decision.

“Both. Obviously both.” I mimic the expression of characters from that old cartoon, trying to parody the voice too. Maddie chuckles.

“We can’t get both. That’s too much food.” She gives me the look—the one suggesting I’ve proposed something irresponsible, which is rich from someone who once ordered three desserts.

“We’re athletes. We burn five thousand calories a day just existing.” I lean over to see the screen better, our shoulders pressing together. “Get both and embrace chaos.”

She laughs—actual laughter that sounds genuine. “Fine. You make a compelling argument for excess. What about the noodles? Spicy or mild?”

I make a face instead of answering, because she obviously knows the answer, it’s embarrassing to even ask.

“Last time you ordered something spicy you spent an hour drinking milk and questioning your life choices while your face turned unnatural colors.” She’s grinning now, teasing.

“That was one time, and the spice level was clearly mislabeled. False advertising—I could even sue them!” I fight back.

The image is so vivid I can’t help joining in. God, I love Coach’s dry humor. “Please tell me someone filmed it.”

“God, I hope not. That’s blackmail material.” She steals a dumpling from my container, shameless. “But honestly, it was fun. Being terrible at something and not caring who saw.”

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