[Emily’s POV]

I wait in the empty dorm for what feels like hours but is probably only forty-five minutes based on how many times I’ve checked my phone.

The silence presses against my eardrums, and the space where Maddie stood before storming out feels impossibly large.

The door slammed behind her with enough force to rattle the otter on her desk, and that was an hour ago. Time moves weirdly when you’re replaying conversations and calculating exactly how badly you fucked up. I text her: “Where are you?”

The message delivers. Nothing happens. No typing bubbles, no response. My phone sits silent while my chest gets progressively tighter. Ten minutes later I try again: “I’m sorry for how that went. We should talk.” Still nothing.

By eleven-thirty I’m pacing the narrow strip of floor between our beds. My brain oscillates between anger and worry. Anger because she stormed out without letting me finish, because she accused me of controlling her when I was trying to protect her.

Worry because it’s late and cold and Maddie left without her good jacket.

I checked my phone again and still nothing. I resist the urge to call because calling feels too aggressive, too much like proving her point. At midnight my phone finally buzzes and I nearly drop it. “Staying at Ava’s tonight. Need space.”

I stare at the message. Ava’s place. Because Maddie and Ava are actually friends now, have been for months. Ava, whose couch is apparently where my girlfriend goes when she can’t stand being around me.

The “need space” part sits in my chest like a stone. Space is what people say when they’re reconsidering the relationship.

I want to go over there. Want to make Maddie talk to me, make her see that her father is manipulating her and that I’m not trying to control her, I’m trying to keep her safe. But she asked for space. And going over there would prove every accusation she threw at me.

So I text Chris instead, because Chris is neutral territory and won’t judge me for spiraling. “You awake?”

His response comes almost immediately: “It’s midnight on a Thursday, of course I’m awake. What’s up?”

I call him because typing feels insufficient for the existential crisis I’m currently experiencing. He answers on the second ring with his usual irreverent energy.

“Emily Harper, to what do I owe this late-night call? Are you finally admitting you want to run away together and open that alpaca farm we discussed?”

Despite everything, I almost laugh. “We never discussed an alpaca farm.” I call him out, because I remember our conversations well enough to know that much, at least, no matter how much inner turmoil happens in the background and forefront of my mind.

“Clearly we need to communicate better. What’s going on? You sound stressed in that specific way that means something happened with Maddie.” I hate that he knows this.

I hate even more that I already have a ‘specific voice’ for issues with Maddie—which only supports the fact that it’s happening often enough. “We had a fight.” The words come out flat. “A bad one. She’s staying at Ava’s tonight.”

Chris makes a sympathetic noise. “That’s rough. You want to talk about it, or do you need me to make jokes until you feel marginally less terrible?”

“I don’t even know.” I sink onto my bed, phone pressed to my ear. “Why are women so difficult?”

“You tell me,” he shoots back immediately, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “You’re the one with firsthand experience in that demographic. I’m just an innocent bystander watching from the cheap seats.”

“Innocent is a stretch considering your dating history,” which is not that outrageous, actually. Especially in contrast with his teammates—Chris’s practically a saint.

“The key word there is ‘both people.’ If only one person is doing all the work, if only one person is trying to fix everything, then it stops being love.”

I lie down but don’t bother changing into pajamas. The ceiling has a crack that runs from the light fixture toward the window, and I trace its path while replaying the fight in my head.

“Why are you trying to keep me from my parents? Why do you get to decide if I see them or not?”

The look on Maddie’s face when she said it—angry and defensive and so absolutely certain I was wrong. Her eyes blazing with conviction that I was the villain in this scenario, that I was the one causing problems instead of trying to prevent them.

I was trying to protect her. That’s all I’ve ever done—protect her from people who want to hurt her, from situations that will destroy her. I wasn’t trying to control her. I was trying to keep her safe.

But the accusation sits heavy in my chest anyway. Maybe I was too harsh. Maybe telling her not to see her parents was the wrong approach. Maybe being blunt about manipulation tactics wasn’t helpful.

Maybe Maddie does need to see them. Maybe she needs to face her father and mother and whatever toxic dynamic they’ve created. Maybe she needs that closure so she can move past it instead of living in limbo.

Maybe I should have supported that instead of immediately dismissing it. Maybe I should have said “I’ll come with you” instead of “you’re being manipulated.” Maybe there was a way to be protective without being controlling, and I missed it entirely.

The ceiling crack doesn’t have any answers. Neither does the darkness or the silence or the empty bed across from mine.

I don’t sleep. Just lie there watching shadows move across the wall, replaying the fight on an endless loop, wondering if I just destroyed the best thing in my life by trying too hard to save it.