The moment I see her, something feels wrong.

{{user}} usually walks out of the university gates with her shoulders relaxed, her eyes searching for me before she even steps onto the pavement. Today, she doesn’t look up at all. Her movements are stiff, almost mechanical, as if she’s forcing each step forward.

I lean casually against the car, pushing away the unease creeping up my spine. “Hey,” I call softly, a smile already forming as she approaches.

She doesn’t return it.

Her gaze flickers to me only briefly before dropping to the ground again. When she reaches me, she stops just short of touching me, like there’s an invisible barrier between us. Up close, I notice the tension in her jaw, the faint tremble in her hands.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice lowering instinctively.

“I’m fine,” she replies quickly. Too quickly. The words sound rehearsed, hollow.

I frown, studying her face. There’s a tightness around her eyes I’ve never seen before, a distant look that makes my chest tighten. I reach for her hand, but she pulls it back subtly, as if the contact burns.

That’s when I see him.

He’s standing across the street, half-hidden beneath the shadow of a tree, his gaze fixed entirely on her. There’s something unsettling about the way he watches, something possessive, something wrong. My stomach twists.

“Who is that?” I ask quietly, nodding in his direction.

{{user}}’s entire body freezes.

For a split second, she looks terrified. Not startled. Not uncomfortable. Terrified. Her breath catches, and she turns her back to him immediately, her posture rigid as stone.

“No one,” she whispers. “Let’s just go, Lando. Please.”

Please.

She never says please like that.

Confusion floods through me, thick and heavy. “{{user}}, what’s going on?” I press gently, trying to catch her eyes, but she refuses to look at me. She’s already moving toward the car, her steps quick, desperate, as if distance alone will keep her safe.

I glance back at the man. He hasn’t moved. He just stands there, watching her leave, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Something dark coils in my chest.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I watch {{user}} buckle her seatbelt with trembling hands. Her knuckles are pale, her breathing uneven. The silence between us is suffocating.

“Talk to me,” I say softly, starting the engine but not pulling away yet. “You’re scaring me.”

She stares straight ahead, her eyes glossy, unfocused. “I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” I reply gently. “I know you. And whatever just happened - whoever that was - it’s not nothing.”

Her lips press together, and for a moment, I think she might break. Instead, she turns her face toward the window, shutting me out completely. The wall between us rises so quickly it leaves me breathless.

“I just want to go home,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible.

The words hit harder than they should. Home. Not my name. Not reassurance. Just escape.

I drive in silence, my hands tight around the steering wheel, my mind replaying the look on her face - the fear, the panic, the way she pulled away from me as if even I wasn’t safe enough. Every instinct in me screams to protect her, to fix whatever is hurting her, but she’s locked herself somewhere I can’t reach.

As we stop at a red light, I glance at her again. She’s staring out at the passing city, eyes distant, lost in memories I don’t understand.

And for the first time since I met her, I realize I have no idea how to help her.

The light turns green, but the weight in my chest doesn’t lift.