You notice it slowly.

Rachel stops sitting next to you on the couch. Stops calling you first when something goes wrong. Stops looking at you like you’re her safe place.

At first, you tell yourself you’re imagining it.

Until one night at Central Perk, when she chooses the empty chair across the room instead of the one beside you.

“You okay?” you ask later, catching up to her outside.

“I’m fine,” she says too quickly, adjusting her bag. “Just tired.”

You nod, but it doesn’t feel true.

Days turn into weeks. Conversations stay surface-level. Jokes replace honesty. And every time you try to get closer, Rachel takes a step back.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore.

“You’re avoiding me,” you say quietly in Monica’s apartment, everyone else gone.

Rachel freezes.

“I’m not,” she replies, but her voice wavers.

“You are,” you insist. “Did I do something?”

She exhales sharply and turns away, arms crossed like armor.

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong. That’s the problem.”

You blink. “What?”

She hesitates, then finally looks at you—eyes glossy, expression guarded.

“Every time I let myself need someone,” she says, “I end up hurt. And lately… you matter too much.”

Your chest tightens.

“So you’re pushing me away?” you ask. “To protect yourself?”

She nods, barely. “I don’t know how to lose you and survive it.”

Silence settles between you, heavy with everything she’s not saying.

“I’m not asking you to promise anything,” you say gently. “I just wish you’d let me stay.”

Rachel swallows hard. “I want to. I just don’t trust myself not to fall.”