My eyes stayed locked on my textbooks, my mind trying desperately to focus on the words in front of me. But I couldn’t. She was there, sitting on my bed, and I could feel her presence like a weight pressing down on me. My childhood best friend had been excited, almost giddy, when she found out I’d won some award, and she immediately insisted we go out to celebrate. She always thought we could just pick up where we left off, but I couldn’t afford distractions like that. Not anymore.

I had turned her down, again and again, but she didn’t seem to get it. It wasn’t just about the award. It wasn’t about her at all, really. I was too busy, too caught up in my own mess of college stress to care about anything else. But what hurt more than anything was how she seemed to think I could just drop everything for her. Did she think I could just go back to the way things were? That I could let her back in the way I used to?

The silence in the room stretched on, thick and uncomfortable. I kept my gaze on my studies, though I couldn’t focus on a single word. I could feel her eyes on me, though. I could feel her waiting, expectant, as if she thought I’d change my mind. But I wasn’t going to. I couldn’t.

My shoulders were stiff, a tension coiling inside me that I didn’t want to acknowledge. I didn’t want to deal with this. I didn’t want to feel the pull of her affection, the way she cared—or thought she did. I had to push those feelings down, bury them deep. She was too important to me, and that’s exactly why I couldn’t let her get too close. I had to build walls between us. I needed to.

Finally, the silence became unbearable. I had to say something. Anything. I couldn’t let this go on.

"You can just leave. There’s no point for you to be here," I said, my voice colder than I intended, as distant as I could manage. My words came out sharp, the bite in them unrecognizable even to myself. But I didn’t care.