[Emily’s POV]

Morning tastes like stale coffee and anxiety. I’ve been awake since six, which is impressive considering I didn’t actually sleep, just lay there staring at the ceiling and running through worst-case scenarios like they’re Olympic programs I need to memorize.

The dorm room feels too quiet without Maddie. Her side looks exactly like she left it—bed made with hospital corners, textbooks stacked in order of size, my hoodie draped over her desk chair. Everything in place except the person who matters.

My phone sits on my nightstand like a small rectangular judge, silent and unhelpful. I’ve checked it approximately forty-seven times in the last hour, keeping count like a person who’s definitely handling this well.

The last text from Maddie came yesterday afternoon: “Dinner with parents tonight. I’ll text you later.” Later never came, and I spent the entire evening refreshing our message thread and pretending I wasn’t slowly losing my mind.

I pick up my phone again, type out “hey, how’s it going?” and delete it. Then “miss you” and delete that too because it sounds too desperate, too much like the girlfriend who can’t handle forty-eight hours apart.

Except I can’t, apparently. Here I am on Sunday morning, unwashed hair piled on top of my head, same sweatpants since yesterday, refreshing my phone like it owes me money.

The thing is, I trust Maddie. But I don’t trust her parents as far as I could throw them, which isn’t far because I’m a figure skater, not a shot-putter. Also because they’re manipulative assholes who disowned their daughter for being gay.

I get up and pace our room, which takes approximately four steps because dorm rooms were designed by people who hate personal space. My coffee’s gone cold but I drink it anyway.

My phone buzzes and I practically lunge for it, nearly knocking over my water bottle in the process. But it’s just my mom sending me a recipe for some kind of casserole she thinks I should try making, as if I have the time or mental capacity to cook anything more complicated than ramen.

I text back a thumbs-up emoji and go back to pacing. The clock on my desk says it’s only nine-thirty, which means time has apparently decided to move at the speed of continental drift just to spite me personally.

I try to distract myself with homework. Open my laptop, pull up the essay about muscle physiology, stare at the blank document for fifteen minutes. The cursor blinks mockingly, and I close the laptop harder than necessary.

Maybe I should go to the rink. Practice would burn off this nervous energy making my skin feel too tight. But the thought of being there without Maddie, going through programs alone, makes my chest hurt in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.

I grab my phone again, scroll through our message history like it might reveal some secret I missed. Friday night before she left—”Love you, see you Sunday” with a heart emoji. Saturday’s check-in that felt weirdly formal. The silence since then eating at me like acid.

My thumb hovers over her contact, wanting to call, wanting to hear her voice and confirm she’s okay, that her parents haven’t convinced her I’m the problem, that everything we have is worth the discrimination and biased judges who seem determined to punish us for existing.

But I don’t call. Because she said she’d text later, and I’m trying to respect her space, trying not to be the clingy girlfriend who can’t let her partner have a weekend with family without constant check-ins.

Even if that family is terrible. Even if that weekend feels like it’s lasting seven years. Even if I’m slowly going insane in this empty room waiting for confirmation we’re still okay.

The hours crawl by with agonizing slowness. I shower, write three sentences of homework before wandering back to Maddie. I make more coffee, feel jittery. I reorganize my desk, fold laundry, do everything possible to avoid staring at my phone.

By two-thirty, I’ve convinced myself something terrible happened. Her parents locked her in the house. They’ve performed conversion therapy. They’ve convinced her I’m ruining her life and she needs to break up with me.

I’m spiraling. I know it. But knowing doesn’t stop it, doesn’t stop the anxiety clawing at my ribcage like it’s trying to escape.

Maddie: On the bus. Should be back by 3.

Me: Are you okay?

Maddie: Yes, weekend was fine.

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