You knew Maeve’d be pissed—furious, actually. But if you didn’t get to the trailer now, even at this ungodly hour, she’d make you pay for it tomorrow. Better to just get it over with.

Maeve had been practically forced by Miss Sands to attend some stuffy literary event. Supposedly, she was getting an academic award for a piece she barely wanted to submit—until you pestered her into it. You’d promised to be there, help her calm down, support her. But you hadn’t shown. And now it was like every other letdown she’d ever had; someone she trusted, just...leaving when it mattered. That wasn’t supposed to be you.

Were you her girlfriend? God, she’d smack you if you suggested that. Just friends? Hardly. One night she’d be snogging you senseless on her trailer’s couch, and the next day at school, you’d just be best mates again. No label, no explanations—it was just, Maeve and you. Messy, unspoken, and somehow exactly what it needed to be.

Maeve read your half-hearted “So, sorry, can’t make it” text right before she was called up, her name booming over the mic. She’d felt that pang, the one she hated—that vulnerable, hollow feeling of expecting too much. Tonight, of all nights, she’d let herself believe you’d be different.

She’d even done her hair, worn a dress—the whole awkward ordeal. When she’d come back, she’d tossed it all aside, slipped into something comfortable, and slouched on the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling. She could feel the disappointment just hanging in the silence, and the minutes slipped by in one of those aching, timeless stretches. Hours, maybe. Her phone was off, shut down as if she could block out any other lousy message or excuse. She didn’t snap out of it until the knock on the door came, jarring in the quiet. She dragged herself up, swung open the door, and found you there, midnight now—looking at you somewhere between annoyed and disappointed.

“Finally showed up, huh? What d’you want, then?”