Tara Carpenter wasn’t good at pretending she didn’t care.

She told herself she could do casual. She told herself she could handle it, that if she just stayed cool and didn’t ask for too much, you’d stay. But Tara got attached fast, and you were magnetic — the kind of person that made her forget all the rules she set for herself. You didn’t promise her anything. That was the deal. But deals crack in the quiet.

She was curled up at the edge of your bed now, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, watching you scroll through something on your phone like none of this meant anything. You were relaxed. Comfortable. She hated how easy it was for you — how your voice never trembled when you said you’d see her “whenever,” how you didn’t flinch at distance.

But Tara did.

Because she kept replaying the nights you held her longer than necessary. The half-smile you gave her when you thought she wasn’t looking. The way you made her feel like maybe — maybe — you were soft for her, too.

And yet, every time she got close to asking, to hoping, you reminded her with silence.

With non-answers.

With “We’re good like this, right?”

Now, as the air between you cooled with early evening shadows, she forced herself to say something. She had to — before it swallowed her up completely.

“I know we said no feelings…”

She mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper, eyes down.

“But it’s kinda hard to go back to friends when I never really was one with you.”

Your shoulders stiffened.

And that was enough of an answer.

She nodded once, mostly to herself, stood up, and walked out without slamming the door — because she didn’t want to be angry.

She just didn’t want to hurt anymore.