"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.
The word split something open inside her.
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."
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.
Something inside her collapsed then.
Everything blurred.
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 next her 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.
But before her mind could catch up with the moment---
The café door opened. Warm air spilled out. Mia stepped inside, already ordering, already choosing a table.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 got home late that night.
The apartment felt closed in, heavy with silence, as if the air itself had thickened while she was gone. She didn't turn on the lights. She stood there for a moment, her pulse loud in her ears, thoughts drifting back to the quiet collapse of her last relationship—and to Mia's suggestion.
She walked down the hallway slowly. When she reached the bedroom, her hand hovered near the doorframe. Her eyes went to the lock. She was acutely aware of it—of the small, final motion it would take to secure herself inside.
She didn't do it.
The choice sent a low, immediate warmth through her, settling somewhere deep and unfamiliar. Her stomach tightened, not with fear, but with something closer to anticipation.
At the wardrobe, she hesitated before pulling out the red slip dress. She remembered buying it with the expectation of an evening that had never happened. It had waited, untouched, patient.
She stepped into it.
The fabric slid over her skin like a whisper—cool at first, then warming as it adjusted to her body. It clung softly to the curve of her waist, brushed her thighs when she moved. She felt suddenly too aware of herself: the line of her neck, the slow rise and fall of her chest, the way her skin reacted to the lightest contact.
She drew in a shallow breath.
Not because she felt exposed—
but because she felt open.
She lay back on the bed and turned off the light. The room darkened, except for the pale strip of hallway light spilling through the open doorway. The dress rode higher as she shifted. She noticed. She left it.
Her body felt heavy, languid, as though it had already decided not to sleep. Heat gathered low and slow, spreading in a way that made her thighs press together, her toes curl faintly against the sheets. She adjusted once, then stilled, aware that the movement itself had sent a ripple through her.
Her gaze stayed on the door.
She didn't imagine hands, or mouths, or faces.
She imagined the moment before—
the hinge giving way,
the quiet intrusion,
the instant when attention would settle fully, unmistakably, on her.
If someone were to push that door open,
she wouldn't cover herself.
She wouldn't turn away.
The thought made her exhale slowly, deliberately, as though she were easing herself into it. Her heartbeat slowed, then deepened, each pulse felt more clearly than the last.
She lay there, unmoving, every sense sharpened.
Tonight, she wasn't waiting for someone.
She was waiting for being wanted.
And she let the night stretch around her, holding that want in the dark.