Leah didn't go over the next time Jonas asked.
Or the time after that.
She told herself it was scheduling. Deadlines. A headache that lingered longer than it should have. Each excuse sounded reasonable when spoken aloud, even to herself. But the space she left behind felt anything but.
Her days took on a sharper edge. She noticed the quiet more. The way her apartment seemed to echo after lectures, the way evenings stretched thin without anything to anchor them. She tried to fill the time—readings, playlists, half-finished thoughts scribbled in the margins of notebooks—but nothing settled.
Jonas didn't press. He rarely did.
They met on campus instead, quick lunches between classes. He talked. She listened. Sometimes she spoke and felt her words land softly, absorbed and forgotten. She wondered when that had become normal.
At night, Leah caught herself replaying moments she hadn't meant to keep. A mug set gently in front of her. A voice asking if she'd eaten. A look that lingered just long enough to feel deliberate.
She hated herself for it.
When Jonas mentioned his mother in passing—something about a neighbor, a recipe gone wrong—Leah felt a jolt of awareness that was almost relief. Almost pain.
"She asked about you," he said one afternoon, casual. "Said you hadn't been around."
Leah shrugged, eyes on her coffee. "I've been busy."
"Yeah," Jonas said. "Makes sense."
It didn't.
The following weekend, Leah caved.
She told herself she was being dramatic, that avoiding a place because of a feeling she hadn't even named was childish. She could handle a normal visit. She was an adult. This was fine.
Alyssa answered the door.
Her smile faltered for just a fraction of a second—surprise, maybe—before warmth filled the space again. "Leah. Hi."
"Hi," Leah said, suddenly aware of her hands, her posture, the way her heart picked up speed like it recognized something before she did.
"You've been busy," Alyssa said gently.
"Yeah," Leah replied. "Sorry."
"For what?"
Leah didn't have an answer that made sense.
Inside, everything looked the same. Familiar. Safe. Alyssa moved through the space like she belonged there—because she did—and Leah felt the strange, aching certainty that she wanted to belong there too.
They sat at the table. Tea appeared without being asked for.
Jonas was late. Something about a group project. Alyssa and Leah were alone with it.
"I wasn't sure if you'd come back," Alyssa said, not accusing. Just honest.
Leah swallowed. "I didn't mean to disappear."
"I know."
That was worse.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, exactly. It was heavy. Like something pressing just beneath the surface, waiting.
Leah wrapped her hands around the mug and stared down into the steam. "I think I miss this," she said quietly. "Being here."
Alyssa's fingers paused against the table. "This?"
Leah looked up. Met her eyes. "Talking to you."
The words settled between them, fragile and undeniable.
Alyssa didn't look away.
Neither did Leah.
When Jonas finally arrived, loud and apologetic, the moment dissolved—but not entirely. It lingered, tucked beneath Leah's ribs, warm and dangerous.
That night, walking home, Leah admitted something she could no longer avoid.
Absence hadn't dulled what she felt.
It had sharpened it.