"If you say so," he said.
Just like that.
The words landed with a dull finality, as if he were agreeing to the weather.
Anna blinked. "What do you mean, if I say so?"
He shrugged. "I mean… if that's how you feel, then yeah."
That was when she understood.
He wasn't breaking up with her.
He was letting her do it for him.
They had been together since high school. Since they were young enough to believe time meant permanence. He used to wait for her after class, leaning against the lockers like he had nowhere else to be. He used to hold her hand too tightly, like he was afraid she might disappear if he didn't.
She had grown up inside that love.
And now he was bored of it.
"So all those years," she said slowly, "they're just… nothing to you?"
He sighed.
Not in guilt. Not in pain.
In irritation.
"Anna," he said, rubbing his forehead, "why do you always make things so heavy?"
Heavy.
The word split something open inside her.
She had learned to read his moods before he spoke. Learned when to stay quiet, when to be cheerful, when to pretend she wasn't hurt so he wouldn't feel pressured. She had thought that was love. Thought it was maturity.
Apparently, it had just been work.
"I didn't mean it like that," he added, already tired of the conversation. "I just don't feel the same anymore. That happens."
To you, she wanted to say.
But she didn't.
"When did it stop?" she asked instead.
He hesitated, then looked away.
"I don't know. A while ago."
A while ago.
Her heart stuttered.
"You didn't think to tell me?"
He gave a small, helpless smile. "I didn't want to hurt you."
Anna almost laughed.
So he stayed. Let her believe. Let her plan around a future he had already abandoned.
That wasn't kindness.
That was cowardice.
"You were fine," he continued, as if explaining something simple. "I just… don't want this kind of relationship anymore."
"What kind?" she whispered.
He thought about it.
"The kind where I have to explain myself all the time."
Something inside her collapsed then.
She had loved him quietly. Carefully. She had made herself smaller so he could feel bigger, lighter, freer. She had mistaken endurance for devotion.
"I loved you," she said.
He nodded.
"I know."
Just acknowledgment. Like she had stated a fact about the past.
He reached for his jacket.
"That's it?" she asked. "You're just leaving?"
He paused at the door, glanced back once, like someone checking whether they'd forgotten their keys.
"You'll be fine," he said. "You always are."
And then he was gone.
Anna stood there long after the door closed, staring at the space he had occupied, waiting for something to come back to her.
Nothing did.
Only the understanding that she had loved him with her whole heart—and he had stayed with her only until it became inconvenient.
Everything blurred.
The dust.
The light.
His words fading into something distant and unreal.
"Anna."
The voice cut cleanly through the room.
Not gentle.
Not private.
Anna flinched.
"Anna?" Mia called again, a little louder this time. Her chair slid back with a soft, deliberate sound as she leaned forward. "Hey—Anna."
The instructor stopped mid-sentence.
Conversation stalled. Pens hovered. A collective pause rippled through the room.
Anna blinked, breath catching painfully in her chest. For a second, she didn't know where she was. The white walls snapped into focus too quickly, the table suddenly too close, too sharp, too real.
"Yes?" she said.
Too late.
A few people laughed—not unkindly, but with that reflexive relief people felt when embarrassment wasn't theirs.
"Oh," Mia said at once, concern blooming perfectly across her face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. You were just… gone for a moment."
Gone.
The word lingered.
Every eye turned to Anna.
Heat rushed up her neck, sharp and humiliating. She felt it in her ears, her cheeks, the way her hands suddenly seemed foreign to her. She straightened in her chair, then immediately slouched, then corrected herself again, movements clumsy and unsure.
"I—sorry," she said. "I wasn't paying attention."
Her voice came out smaller than she intended.
The instructor smiled, professional and forgiving. "That's alright. These exercises can bring things up."
Anna nodded too fast. Too eager.
Her shame settled heavy in her stomach, thick and sour. She could feel it in the way her classmates' gazes skimmed over her—curious, sympathetic, faintly relieved.
Mia stood.
She didn't hesitate.
"Oh, this one's on me," Mia said lightly, already stepping closer. She rested a hand on Anna's shoulder, fingers warm, confident, familiar. "We were talking earlier. She's had a rough week."
Rough.
The word slid neatly into place, an acceptable explanation. Something vague enough to protect Anna from questions.
"It's completely fine," Mia continued smoothly, her smile effortless as she addressed the instructor, then the room. "Anna's one of the most reliable people here. She just needs a moment."
The attention shifted.
Just like that.
The room exhaled.
The instructor nodded. "Of course. Take your time, Anna."
Anna swallowed.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Mia gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze—reassuring, proprietary—then returned to her seat as if nothing unusual had happened. As if she hadn't been the one to pull Anna into the spotlight moments earlier.
From the outside, it looked like grace.
From the inside, Anna felt small. Exposed. And inexplicably grateful.
She lowered her gaze to the paper in front of her, heart still racing. Her pen trembled as she picked it up.
Across the table, Lina watched her.
She didn't smile.
Didn't soften.
She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed neatly, posture relaxed in a way that came from never worrying about how she was perceived. Her gaze was sharp, unapologetic, educated.
When their eyes met, Lina lifted an eyebrow—not mocking, not cruel. Measuring.
The quiet girl sat very still. Her name was Iris.
She had noticed everything, her fingers curled slowly against the edge of her notebook, nails short, bitten down.
She said nothing.
She never did.
The workshop resumed, but Anna barely heard it. Words reached her late, dulled, as if traveling through water. She wrote because she was supposed to, because not writing felt like another failure she couldn't afford.
Her handwriting was uneven.
Her thoughts refused to settle.
When the break was announced, chairs scraped back, conversation resumed in polite murmurs. Anna remained seated, staring at the page like it might explain what she had done wrong.
Mia turned to her immediately.
"That was a lot," she said softly. "Are you alright?"
Anna nodded. Then shook her head.
"I'm embarrassed," she admitted.
Mia's expression softened further, eyes warm with practiced empathy. "Don't be. Everyone drifts sometimes. It just means you're human."
Human.
Anna released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"Do you want to get some air after this?" Mia asked. "Or coffee. Whatever feels easiest."
Anna hesitated.
Before she could answer, Lina stood.
"Can I borrow you for a moment?" Lina said.
It wasn't really a question.
Anna glanced at Mia, uncertain.
Mia smiled graciously. "Of course."
They stepped a little aside.
Lina didn't bother lowering her voice.
"Listen," she said flatly, "you're not stupid. So don't behave like you are."
Anna stiffened.
"I—"
"You checked out in the middle of a room full of people," Lina continued. "That doesn't happen for no reason."
Anna looked down.
Lina exhaled slowly, rubbing her temple. "You don't owe me an explanation. Just don't pretend this is nothing."
"Careful of what?" Anna asked quietly.
Lina's gaze flicked, briefly, toward Mia. Then back.
"People who decide what's good for you without asking," she said. "And don't waste your life on bullshit."
Anna frowned. "Don't judge me."
Lina's mouth tightened. "I'm not. I'm annoyed."
She studied Anna for a second longer, irritation flashing across her face. "You used to be… brighter."
Her voice dropped, sharper. "There's a difference between being vulnerable and letting yourself look pathetic."
Anna didn't answer.
"You're vulnerable," Lina said. "That makes you easy to push."
"That's a horrible thing to say," Anna murmured.
"Yes," Lina agreed calmly. "And it's still true."
She stepped back.
"Don't agree to anything while you're like this," Lina said. "That's my advice."
Then she walked away.
Mia was at Anna's side almost instantly.
"Are you okay?" she asked, concern threading her voice. "Lina can be… abrasive."
"She was just being honest," Anna said weakly.
Mia smiled, sympathetic and smooth. "Honesty without kindness can still do damage."
She paused, lowering her voice.
"You don't need people who make you feel worse right now."
The words slid perfectly into place.
Anna nodded.
Iris remained beside her, silent, steady. She didn't interrupt. Didn't offer comfort she wasn't sure she was allowed to give.
She stayed.
Anna didn't notice.
She only noticed Mia's hand on her arm—warm, reassuring—and the strange relief of standing on the same side as someone who seemed so certain.
They left the building together.
Late afternoon light spilled across the steps, warm and deceptive, smoothing the sharp edges of the city. Anna paused at the top of the stairs, blinking as if the world had been turned up too bright all at once.
Mia stepped beside her immediately, matching her pace without effort.
Iris followed a half-step behind.
No one invited her.
No one told her not to come.
"Do you feel better?" Mia asked gently.
"A little," Anna said. The answer surprised her by being true. "I just… hate being seen like that."
Mia smiled with quiet understanding. "Most people do."
They began walking. Mia kept the conversation light, steady, guiding it the way she guided her steps—confidently, without checking whether anyone else was keeping up.
"You didn't do anything wrong," Mia continued. "Workshops like that tend to pull things out of people."
Anna nodded. "It was embarrassing."
Mia tilted her head. "Only if you think vulnerability is something to apologize for."
Iris walked behind them, listening.
She noticed how Mia never broke stride, how Anna adjusted herself unconsciously to stay beside her. She noticed how Anna's shoulders were still slightly hunched, how her hands kept twisting together.
She wanted to say something.
She had so much to say.
But nothing came out.
They passed a row of cafés. Mia slowed, then stopped in front of one that looked effortlessly refined—clean lines, muted colors, the kind of place where the prices weren't displayed prominently because the customers didn't need to ask.
"Do you have time for coffee?" Mia asked.
Anna hesitated. "I guess so."
Mia smiled. "Good."
She turned toward the entrance, already reaching for the door.
Anna followed.
Iris stopped.
She stood there for a second longer, eyes on the café window, on the reflection of the three of them layered over polished glass. She knew that place. Knew the way the total would appear casually on the screen, the pause that would follow if she hesitated.
She didn't like owing people.
"Mia," Iris said quietly.
Mia turned, polite, expectant. "Yes?"
"I think I'll head home," Iris said. Her voice was careful, neutral. "I've got an early shift tomorrow."
Anna turned, surprised. "Oh—are you sure?"
Iris nodded quickly. "Yeah."
She offered a small smile. It didn't quite hold.
"Text me when you get back," she added, eyes flicking to Anna's face. "Okay?"
Anna nodded. "Of course."
Mia smiled warmly. "We'll catch up another time."
Iris hesitated, just for a moment. Her gaze lingered on Anna, unreadable—concern folded neatly into restraint.
Then she turned and walked away.
Anna didn't notice right away.
The café door opened. Warm air spilled out. Mia stepped inside, already ordering, already choosing a table.
By the time Anna realized Iris was gone, she was sitting down.
Inside, everything smelled expensive and calm. Wood, coffee, something faintly sweet. Mia ordered without looking at the menu. Anna followed, suddenly aware of the way she always checked prices first.
They sat by the window.
Mia stirred her drink slowly. "Can I ask you something?"
Anna nodded.
"When was the last time someone made you feel… wanted?"
Anna's fingers tightened around her cup.
"I don't know," she said.
Mia watched her closely. "That's what I thought."
Anna swallowed. "I don't want anything complicated."
"Of course not," Mia said immediately. "That's not what this is."
She paused, then continued lightly.
"I know someone," she said. "He's kind. Very composed. And honestly, he's interested in meeting someone new."
Anna frowned. "Interested in me?"
"In meeting," Mia corrected gently. "No expectations."
There it was again.
No expectations.
"It's just dinner," Mia said. "A conversation. A change of scenery."
Anna stared down at the coffee.
"I don't even know his name."
Mia smiled. "That's not unusual."
Anna laughed softly. "That sounds like something you'd say."
Mia laughed too.
"I don't want to be anyone's rebound," Anna said.
"You wouldn't be," Mia replied smoothly. "He doesn't know your situation. That's the point."
Anna hesitated.
"I don't have anything nice to wear."
"You don't need to impress him," Mia said. "You're enough as you are."
The words slid into place perfectly.
Anna thought of Iris's face when she left. The way she hadn't argued. Hadn't insisted.
She pushed the thought away.
"Why are you doing this?" Anna asked suddenly.
Mia met her gaze, calm and unflinching.
"Because I don't like seeing you hurt," she said. "And because I think you deserve to remember who you are."
It was true.
Just not complete.
Anna exhaled.
"Okay," she said.
Mia's smile deepened, satisfied but restrained.
"Good," she said. "I'll take care of everything."
Anna nodded.
Somewhere outside, Iris was already on her way home, replaying the moment again and again, wondering whether silence counted as betrayal—or if speaking would have made things worse.
Anna never noticed the difference.