Cyrus didn't disappear.
He just changed tactics.
Jay noticed it in the smallest ways first.
Her phone lighting up with missed calls from unknown numbers. Messages that sounded reasonable—almost caring—if you didn't know how to read between the lines.
I think there's been a misunderstanding.
We never actually talked.
You owe me at least that.
She didn't reply.
So he showed up.
Not dramatically. Not loudly.
Just… there.
Outside the library. Near the cafeteria. Leaning against a pillar like he belonged in her line of sight. Always careful to keep distance. Always careful to look harmless.
The first time he spoke to her again, Keifer wasn't around.
"Jay," Cyrus said softly, stepping into her path but not blocking it. "You're really going to keep pretending I don't exist?"
Her pulse spiked. She stopped anyway.
"I told you I don't want to talk," she said.
"You didn't," he replied calmly. "You let him talk for you."
The words were deliberate.
"That wasn't about him," Jay said, forcing steadiness into her voice. "That was about me."
Cyrus tilted his head, studying her like a problem he hadn't solved yet.
"You're not thinking clearly," he said. "You've always needed someone to lean on. Right now, you've just chosen the wrong person."
Her hands clenched. "You don't get to decide that."
"I've known you longer than he has."
The sentence landed heavy—not because it was true, but because it was meant to sound like ownership.
Jay stepped back. "Don't do this."
"Do what?" he asked, spreading his hands slightly. "Care? Worry? I'm the only one who actually understands you."
Her stomach twisted.
"Understanding me doesn't give you access to me," she said.
For a split second, something sharp flashed across his face.
Then it was gone.
"Fine," he said lightly. "Take space. I'll wait."
That scared her more than anger would have.
Because Cyrus had always been patient.
Later that night, her phone buzzed again.
Cyrus: I didn't mean to pressure you today.
Cyrus: You know I get emotional when I feel shut out.
Cyrus: I'm trying to respect you.
She stared at the messages, heart racing.
Then another.
Cyrus: But you can't shut me out forever.
Jay turned her phone off.
The next morning, Cyrus approached her in public—carefully. In front of people. Smiling.
"Hey," he said like they were normal. "Can we talk later?"
"No," Jay replied, clearly.
A few heads turned.
Cyrus' smile tightened. "You don't have to be rude."
"I'm not being rude," she said. "I'm being clear."
The word clear did something to him.
"You're acting like I hurt you," he said quietly. "That's not fair."
Jay felt the familiar pull—the urge to explain, to soften, to make him comfortable again.
She didn't.
"I don't owe you fairness," she said. "I owe myself safety."
Cyrus leaned closer, voice low. "You think standing next to him makes you safe?"
She didn't answer.
Because the truth was—
it did.
And he saw it.
That night, Keifer noticed Jay locking her door.
Twice.
"You want me to walk you tomorrow?" he asked casually.
She nodded. "Yeah."
He didn't ask why.
Across campus, Cyrus sat alone, jaw clenched, replaying every moment where control had slipped through his fingers.
Jay wasn't afraid of him anymore.
That was the problem.
And Cyrus didn't know how to exist in a world where she had learned to say no—
and meant it.