[Emily’s POV]

I check my phone for approximately the eight hundredth time today. Still nothing new from Maddie except three texts: arrived safe, dinner was good, everything’s fine.

Which, in girlfriend translation, means nothing is fine but we’re both pretending otherwise.

The brevity feels wrong. Maddie usually texts in paragraphs. Radio silence masquerading as communication is not her style.

It’s Saturday evening and our dorm room feels too empty. I’ve been staring at geography notes. My brain has absorbed zero information.

Around seven, I break. I can’t just sit here. I call her. She answers on the third ring. “Hey. What’s up?”

“I wanted to hear your voice.” I answer carefully, my chest constricting from the sound of her voice—tired and carefully distant, but hers. “I know we left things weird before you left. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard about your dad.”

“It’s okay, Em. I know you were worried.” She sounds agonizingly neutral. “Everything’s really nice here. They’re being super welcoming and asking about school and training.”

The words come out smooth, practiced. “My mom made enough food to feed the entire tri-state area, so standard operating procedure for mothers who think their children are wasting away.”

Then I hear it—a male voice in the background. Maddie’s father. The voice is too close. He’s right there.

“Is everything really okay?” My voice comes out small. “You sound different. Maddie, I’m trying here. I want us to be okay.”

“Different how? I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?” There’s an edge now. “Everything’s going well. My parents are being great. It’s all very normal.”

“But I do worry. That’s kind of my whole thing. Worrying is like my primary personality trait at this point.” I try for lightness and fail. “Maddie, please. Talk to me.”

“I am talking to you.” Her voice gets defensive. “What do you want me to say, Em? That I’m miserable? That I regret coming here? I’m not.”

“That’s not what I mean.” I take a breath. “I just want to know if we’re okay? Because it doesn’t feel like it.”

“We’re fine. Why do you always assume something’s wrong?” She’s getting defensive again. “Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe I just want one weekend without everything being analyzed.”

That hits like a punch. “Is that what you think I do? Analyze and dissect everything like some kind of relationship detective?”

“Don’t you?” Her voice softens slightly. “Em, I don’t know how to say this better, but everything’s okay. I love you, and I always will, but can’t we just be okay without talking about it every five minutes?”

I’m quiet for a long moment. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay. Last time we talked, you were angry with me for being controlling. Now I’m trying not to be, but apparently that’s also wrong.”

“That’s not fair.” Her voice cracks. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying I need space. Is that too much to ask?”

“No. It’s not.” My chest tightens. “Maddie, when are you coming back? Can we talk when you get home?”

“Probably around three.” I can picture her shrugging, even though I can’t see her. “Maybe later if my mom wants to do breakfast, but I should be back by mid-afternoon.”

“Can we talk tonight?” I’m pushing. “After your parents go to bed? I feel like we’re both pretending. I miss you.”

I want to protect her. But she doesn’t want my protection. She wants space to make her own mistakes.

I can see the manipulation. But Maddie can’t. And I’m stuck here counting hours, wondering if she’ll still be mine.

I love her with all my heart. I cannot lose her. But I also cannot break myself trying to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

That thought keeps circling. Because admitting it means I might not be enough. That sometimes the person you’d die for is walking toward the cliff.

I count the hours until she comes home. Nineteen, maybe twenty. I can survive nineteen hours.

But I don’t sleep. I lie there listening to campus outside—people laughing, car doors closing, music too loud.

I try to convince myself tomorrow she’ll come home and everything will be okay. That this distance is situational.

I try not to think about her careful voice, how she said she was fine like a script. I try not to think about dying inside.

The hours crawl by and I count every one, waiting for the moment when she walks back through that door.

Whether I’m losing her. Whether I’ve already lost her. Whether I can keep fighting for someone who won’t fight back.