45
Hannah
By Monday morning, I have successfully convinced myself that Nate backing off is a triumph of modern maturity.
It’s healthy. It’s an exercise in boundaries.
It’s exactly the kind of thing stable, well-adjusted people do when they realize their lives are beginning to resemble a particularly messy soap opera set in a hockey rink.
I am giving Ethan a real chance. Nate is giving me space. No more lessons. No more late-night texts that make my thumbs shake. No more using the word *green* as a way to map out the geography of my own skin. It’s an emotional reset. A clean slate.
Except it feels like a physical weight pressing down on my lungs.
I wake up already irritated at the sunlight leaking through the blinds.
My phone is a cold, dark slab on the nightstand.
No texts from Nate. No *inside?* No *you okay?
* No little inside jokes that I spend far too much time dissecting.
He said he was backing off, and apparently, Nate Wilder is a man of his word—which is a trait I usually admire but currently find deeply offensive.
Ella is already awake, propped up against her headboard with a textbook and a coffee cup. Gerald Reed-Wilder is perched beside her, his rubber eyes fixed on me with what I can only describe as silent, judgmental authority.
“You’re scowling at your phone,” Ella says, her voice flat and knowing.
“I am not.”
“You are. You look like you’re trying to set it on fire with your mind.”
“Maybe I am. It’s an underutilized skill.”
“Gerald is worried about your blood pressure, Han.”
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “I’m fine. I’m better than fine. I’m seeing Ethan today.”
Ella’s textbook snaps shut—a sound that, in this room, usually precedes an emotional intervention. “Are you seeing him because you actually want to, or because Nate’s silence is making you twitchy?”
“I’m seeing him because I like him,” I say, perhaps too loudly. “He texted last night. He asked to grab coffee between classes. It was simple. It was nice. There were no hidden layers of trauma involved.”
“Truth is caffeine-free, Han,” Ella says gently. “It doesn’t matter how fast you answer him if you’re still thinking about the guy who isn’t texting you.”
“I’m not thinking about Nate,” I lie, throwing off my blanket and heading for my dresser.
I avoid the bottom drawer with practiced precision.
That drawer has become a haunted basement, and I am not starring in a horror movie before my first lecture.
“Nate backing off is good for me. It means I can actually focus on a guy who doesn't come with a set of instructions.”
Ethan is waiting outside Briar Hall, leaning against the low brick wall. He looks like a catalog for "Dependable and Handsome"—clean jeans, a charcoal sweater, and a smile that makes me feel like the world is a lot less sharp than it actually is.
“Hey,” he says, holding out a cup. “Vanilla latte. Extra shot.”
I take it, the warmth of the cardboard seeping into my palms. “You remembered.”
“I’m trying to earn my five-star rating,” he teases. “I heard the competition is fierce.”
I laugh, a real, genuine sound. “Four stars so far. You lost half a point for the anatomy quiz last week.”
“Harsh, but fair.” He falls into step beside me as we head toward the quad. His hand brushes mine—a deliberate, soft question. I let my fingers relax, and he slides his hand into mine.
It feels... nice. That’s the word that keeps circling my brain.
Ethan is nice. He is safe. He doesn't make me feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff; he feels like the ground beneath my feet.
I squeeze his hand, and he looks over at me with a soft, affectionate expression.
This is what I wanted. This is what I’m supposed to feel.
We’re walking past the fountain, Ethan telling me a story about a lab partner who accidentally set a petri dish on fire, and for a moment, I actually forget to look for the color black in the crowd.
Then I see them.
Nate is coming out of the athletic building with Carter and Mason. He’s wearing a black Northwood hoodie and shorts, his hair damp from the shower. My entire body goes rigid. It’s like a magnetic pull—every nerve ending I have suddenly points directly at Nate.
Ethan’s hand is still in mine. Nate sees it. I know he sees it because he slows down, just for a fraction of a second.
And then, he nods.
A polite, distant, "we go to the same school" nod.
No words. No stopping. He doesn't even use my name. He just looks through me, acknowledges my existence like I’m a stranger he occasionally shares a hallway with, and keeps walking.
My heart doesn't just drop; it caves. I hate the nod. I hate it more than I hated him being noble in his apartment. It feels like a door being latched from the other side, and the sound of it is deafening.
“So Saturday,” Ethan says, seemingly oblivious or just being mercifully quiet about the interaction. “There’s that food truck festival downtown. Mac and cheese in waffle cones. Want to go?”
I blink, forcing my eyes away from Nate’s retreating back. “Mac and cheese... in a cone?”
“It’s structurally unstable, I know. But it feels like a Saturday mission.”
I take a breath, trying to push the cold knot in my chest aside. “Yeah. That sounds good, Ethan. I’d like that.”
He grins, and for a second, the world feels a little more stable. But as we keep walking, I can still smell the faint, lingering scent of Nate’s soap in the air as he passed.
Back in the dorm, I flop onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. Ella is back at her desk, Gerald positioned like a tiny gargoyle.
“I saw Nate,” I mutter.
Ella turns in her chair. “And?”
“He gave me a polite nod, Ella. A *nod*. Like I’m a casual acquaintance.”
“Well, you told him to back off,” she points out.
“I know! But he actually did it. He walked right past me while I was holding Ethan’s hand and he didn't even flinch. It was awful.”
“It was space,” Ella says softly. “This is what space feels like when you didn't actually want the distance, Han. You can like being with Ethan and still be hurt that Nate is respecting your choice.”
I close my eyes. “I’m trying so hard to make Ethan the answer.”
“I know you are. Just make sure you aren't using him as a shield against the truth.”
Later that night, Ethan texts me a meme of a cat eating mac and cheese. It’s sweet and funny, and I reply with a heart. It’s easy to be with him. It’s quiet.
But I can’t stop replaying that nod in my head.
Nate didn't just back off; he took the room with him.
And now I’m standing in the space he left, wondering why the hell it feels so cold.
I look at the bottom drawer of my dresser—the one holding the black shirt.
I don't open it. I don't have to. I already know that even if I hide it under every towel I own, I’ll still know exactly where it is.
Saturday with Ethan is a plan. A real, nice, easy plan. But the polite nod from a boy in a black hoodie is the only thing currently tattooed on my brain.