21 wrong timing
I should've known he'd try again.
Not because he's predictable in a simple way, but because he's persistent in the exact ways that used to work on me. There's a difference, and I'm aware of it now in a way I wasn't before.
Which is probably why I see him before he says my name.
I'm halfway down the hallway, books in one hand, phone in the other, when the movement shifts slightly in front of me. People slow down without meaning to, conversations dip just enough that something stands out. And then-
"Madilyn."
I stop. Not because I want to, but because ignoring him would turn this into something bigger than it needs to be.
I turn slowly, already knowing what I'm going to see.
Josh looks different when he's not trying to impress a crowd. There's less of that easy confidence, less of the automatic charm that usually carries him through everything. What's left is something more direct. More intentional.
Which makes this-
worse.
"What?" I say.
Not sharp, not soft, just enough to make it clear I'm not interested in stretching this out.
He exhales like he expected more resistance than that, running a hand through his hair before stepping a little closer.
"You've been avoiding me," he says.
"I've been busy."
"That's not the same thing."
"It is when I don't want to have this conversation."
There's a brief pause.
He studies me for a second, like he's trying to figure out where the usual version of this interaction went.
"I saw the videos," he says.
Of course he did.
"Everyone did."
"That's not what I meant."
I shift my weight slightly, adjusting my grip on my books so I have something to focus on that isn't him. "Then what did you mean?"
He doesn't answer immediately.
Which is new.
"I meant you," he says finally. "You've been acting different."
"I haven't."
"You have."
"That's subjective."
"That's obvious," he says.
I don't react to that. Because arguing about it would keep this going longer than I want.
"And now you're going to homecoming with him," he adds, like that's the part he's been building toward.
There it is.
"That's not your concern," I say.
"It kind of is."
"No," I reply, steady this time. "It really isn't."
He exhales, frustration slipping through in a way I don't think he intended to show. "You're moving on pretty fast."
The words land. Not because they're accurate.
Because they're familiar. Because they sound like something I used to take seriously.
I don't anymore.
"At least I'm moving," I say.
He flinches slightly at that, just enough that I notice.
"You're doing this for attention," he says, trying to recover. "That's what this is."
I shake my head once, not sharply, just... final.
"You don't get to decide that."
"I know you," he says. "This isn't you."
That almost makes me laugh. Not because it's funny. Because it's wrong.
"You knew me," I say. "That's not the same thing."
There's a shift in his expression at that, something tightening slightly around the edges.
"I'm just trying to understand what happened," he says, quieter now.
"You don't need to understand it," I reply. "You just need to accept it."
"And if I don't?"
I hold his gaze for a second. "That's still not my problem."
The hallway noise picks up again around us, people moving past like this is just another conversation they don't need to be part of.
He looks at me like he's waiting for something else.
For hesitation, for a crack, for the version of me that would've softened by now.
There isn't one.
Not this time.
"You really don't care," he says.
I don't answer immediately. Because-
that's not the right question.
It's not about whether I care.
It's about what I do with it.
"I'm done," I say instead.
That's clearer.
That's enough.
There's a moment where it looks like he might say something else, push further, try to turn this into something bigger.
He doesn't.
Which is the only reason this ends cleanly.
I step around him before he can change his mind, continuing down the hallway without looking back.
My hands feel steady.
My steps feel steady.
Everything about that felt-
controlled, like I knew exactly what I was doing.
Which I did.
Mostly.
Because the second I turn the corner, out of his line of sight, something shifts. Not visibly, not enough that anyone else would notice, just... internally.
I slow down slightly, adjusting my grip on my books again even though there's nothing wrong with it.
That part-
about homecoming.
About moving on.
About doing this for attention.
None of it landed the way he wanted it to. But something else did.
Something quieter.
Something I didn't expect.
Because when he said it-
when he said I was moving on-
the only thing that stuck wasn't the accusation.
It was the question underneath it.
Why did I say yes?
Not why it makes sense.
Not why it works.
Not the practical reasons, the public ones, the ones I can explain without thinking.
Just... why I didn't say no. Why I didn't push harder. Why I didn't walk away from it completely.
I slow to a stop near my locker, staring at nothing for a second longer than I should.
Because I know the answer I'm supposed to have.
It's easy, it's logical, tt's controlled.
But the more I think about it-
the less that answer feels complete.
And that-
is new.
I open my locker, shoving my books inside with more force than necessary before closing it again.
It doesn't help.
The feeling stays.
Not overwhelming, not obvious, just... there.
I push off the locker, forcing myself to keep moving.
Because standing still means thinking about it.
And thinking about it means-
I might not like what I figure out.
So I don't.
I keep walking, like nothing changed.
Even though-
something did.