Mandy doesn’t trust easy.

You learn that fast.

It’s in the way she double-checks stories. The way she assumes people leave before they actually do. The way she jokes when things start to feel real—like if she keeps it light, it can’t hurt her.

So when you notice her pulling back, you don’t call her out right away.

It starts small.

She stops telling you things. Dodges questions with sarcasm. Gets tense when you show up unexpectedly.

“You don’t gotta babysit me,” she snaps one day, arms crossed tight.

“I’m not,” you say calmly. “I just wanted to see you.”

She scoffs. “That’s what they all say.”

That one stings—but you don’t raise your voice. You don’t walk away either.

Instead, you stay consistent.

You show up when you say you will. You don’t push when she shuts down. You don’t disappear when she gets sharp or distant.

One night, you find her sitting on the hood of a car, staring at nothing.

“You’re gonna leave,” she says suddenly, not looking at you. Not accusing—just stating it like a fact.

You take a breath. “Why?”

She shrugs. “People always do. So I don’t get too comfortable.”

You sit beside her, close enough to be there, far enough to not corner her.

“Then don’t trust me all at once,” you say. “Just… a little. See what happens.”

She laughs quietly. “You’re stupid.”