Monday afternoon, Emily was in the library's third floor her preferred study spot when she needed genuine quiet, not the performative studying that happened on lower floors.
She'd been working on her capstone revisions for two hours, making minimal progress, her mind persistently drifting back to Saturday's gallery incident.
Alex's words kept replaying: Better than someone who let her go because work was more important.
The worst part was how accurate they felt.
She was highlighting a passage for the third time when someone cleared their throat nearby.
Alex stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
"Hey," he said quietly. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
Emily's first instinct was defensiveness—shoulders tensing, preparing for round two of whatever argument they'd started. But something in his expression stopped her.
"Okay."
He pulled out the chair across from her, sitting but maintaining distance, not invading her space.
