When Lines Blur...

invisible string

FREYYYY

Morning comes whether you're ready for it or not.

I wake up before my alarm, Ethan still asleep beside me, one arm heavy over my waist like an anchor. For a split second, everything is fine. Normal. Safe.

Then my brain turns on.

Dinner.
The table.
Mal's eyes finding mine like gravity.

I carefully slide out from under Ethan's arm, moving slow so I don't wake him. He makes a small sound in his sleep, turning onto his side, and guilt presses down on my chest so hard it almost knocks the air out of me.

I pull on my sweatshirt and leave the room.

The bathroom mirror is brutal in the morning. My eyes are puffy, my mouth pressed into a line like I'm holding something back. I splash water on my face, stare at myself like I might confess something if I look long enough.

"You have a boyfriend," I whisper to my reflection.
"You're fine."

The words don't stick.

By the time I leave the apartment, I've convinced myself today will be easy. Classes, coffee, errands. No Mal. No complications.

The universe laughs.

I'm halfway across campus when I hear my name.

"Freya."

My stomach drops before I even turn around.

Mal is standing near the steps of the student center, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, hair still damp like he showered and didn't bother to dry it properly. He looks tired. Wrecked, actually. Like sleep didn't do its job.

For one horrible second, everything else blurs.

Then I remember Ethan.
Claire.
Dinner.

I stop anyway.

"Hey," I say, like it doesn't take effort to breathe.

He nods once. "Hey."

Silence stretches between us, thick and awkward and familiar in the worst way. People pass around us, laughing, living their lives, completely unaware that my heart is pounding like it's trying to escape my ribs.

"I didn't know you had class over here," I add, because apparently I'm incapable of shutting up when I'm nervous.

"I don't," he says. "Hudson dragged me."

Of course he did.

I tuck my hands into my sleeves, suddenly aware of everything — the space between us, the way his eyes keep flicking to my mouth and then away, the way I'm standing too still like if I move I'll break something.

"How are you?" he asks.

The question is quiet. Careful.

I swallow. "Good."

He exhales like he doesn't believe me. Like he's not good either.

"Freya—"

"Mal," I cut in quickly. Too quickly. "I should go. I'm late."

I'm not. But I need the excuse.

He steps back instinctively, like he felt the wall I just put up. His jaw tightens, and for a second I think he's going to argue.

He doesn't.

"Yeah," he says. "Okay."

I take one step away.

Then another.

I hate that part of me is screaming to turn around. To ask him why he looked like that last night. To tell him I didn't sleep. To ask him if he felt it too.

I don't.

I keep walking.

I don't look back — not because I don't want to, but because I know if I do, I'll run straight into his arms and ruin everything.

By the time I reach my class, my hands are shaking.

I sit down, stare at my notebook, and try to focus on anything except the way my chest feels too full, like something important is stuck there with nowhere to go.

You're doing the right thing, I tell myself.
This is what moving on looks like.

But all I can think is:

Why does doing the right thing hurt this much?

A.N.

if it's so right why does it feel wrong frey? LOVE UUUU

-Jazzy <333