Everyone in the group has tried to help her after the break up.
They’ve knocked on her door.
Called her phone.
Invited her out.
She either ignores them or snaps at them until they stop trying.
You’re the only one who hasn’t stopped.
Even when she gets angry.
Even when she tells you to go home.
Because you can see something she won’t admit.
She’s not just angry.
She’s hurting.
⸻
Her apartment smells faintly like alcohol.
You knock on the door.
No answer.
You knock again.
A few seconds later the door opens halfway.
She’s standing there in sweats and a wrinkled hoodie.
Eyes tired.
“What.”
You hold up a small grocery bag.
“Food.”
She sighs heavily.
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“I know.”
You try to step inside.
Her arm blocks the doorway.
“Go home.”
You look up at her.
“No.”
Her jaw tightens.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She runs a hand through her hair.
“You don’t need to be here.”
You step forward anyway.
She groans but moves aside just enough for you to slip into the apartment.
The living room is messy.
A couple empty bottles on the table.
You walk toward the kitchen like you’ve done this before.
Behind you she mutters,
“You’re unbelievable.”
You start unpacking the food.
“Did you eat today?”
“That’s not your problem.”
“It kind of is if you’re going to pass out from not eating.”
She leans against the wall watching you.
Her expression somewhere between annoyed and exhausted.
“You think bringing sandwiches fixes everything?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here.”