48
Hannah
The problem with having a best friend is that sometimes she knows you too well. The other problem—the much more pressing one—is that she owns a face.
Ella’s face, specifically, has become a high-precision weapon of emotional exposure.
She doesn’t even have to open her mouth to dismantle my entire life; she just sits on her bed with one leg tucked under her, painting her nails a shade of cherry red that looks like it cost more than my textbook budget, and looks at me.
It’s the look of a person who solved a puzzle three chapters ago but is patiently waiting for the protagonist to stop walking into walls and catch up.
Gerald Reed-Wilder is perched beside her pillow. He’s facing me. Naturally.
I point a finger at the duck, my jaw tight. “Can you turn him around? He’s staring.”
“No,” Ella says, not even looking up from her pinky nail.
“Why? It’s creepy.”
“He’s part of the conversation, Hannah. He’s the silent moderator.”
“He is a hollow piece of rubber made in a factory.”
“He is family. He contains multitudes. Also, he’s seen more than I have at this point, so let him judge.”
I let out a frustrated sound and drop onto my bed, covering my face with both hands. The mattress springs squeak, mocking me. “I hate this room. It’s too small for the amount of atmospheric pressure currently in it.”
“This room has supported you through several crises,” Ella says, blowing gently on her nails. “It’s seen you through midterms, caffeine overdoses, and whatever is currently happening with your facial expressions. Don’t blame the architecture.”
I lower my hands just enough to stare at the ceiling. There are tiny cracks in the white paint that look vaguely like a map of a country I would probably be deported from. “I’m trying with Ethan,” I say.
The silence that follows is deafening. Ella’s brush pauses mid-air. There it is. That sentence has become my mantra lately, a defensive line I keep repeating until it starts to sound like I’m trying to convince a jury that doesn’t exist. Or worse, a jury that’s already on Nate’s payroll.
“I know,” Ella says. Her voice is careful. Too careful.
“I am. I really am.”
“I believe you, Han.”
“He’s good. He’s so sweet. He’s patient, he’s smart, and he looks at me like I’m the only girl in the room. He’s literally everything I wanted him to be before... all of this.”
Ella caps the nail polish and sets it on her nightstand with a definitive *clink*. That is the universal signal for: *The manicure is over, the therapy session has begun.*
“Liking someone isn’t always the same thing as wanting them,” she says softly.
I close my eyes. It’s the tiny knife she keeps handing me politely. I want to reject it, but the blade is already pressed against my ribs. “I do want him,” I say, but even to my own ears, the words sound like they’re being read from a script I didn't write.
The room goes quiet, save for the muffled sound of a bass drop from a dorm room down the hall. I pull my knees to my chest, curling into a ball.
“The whole thing started because of Ethan,” I whisper.
“The fake dating. The deal. Nate was just supposed to get his attention. It worked, Ella. It worked perfectly. He noticed me. He asked me out. He’s doing every single thing I used to dream about when I was sitting in the back of the lecture hall.”
“Before Nate,” Ella adds.
The word *Before* is a cavern. Before Nate touched me. Before he saw through every layer of my armor. Before he made me feel like my own skin was a place I was actually allowed to inhabit instead of just a costume I was wearing.
“And the lessons...” I trail off, my face heating. I haven't told Ella every detail—some things are too private, too raw to be spoken out loud—but she knows the shape of it. She knows that what started as a tactical exchange turned into something that doesn't have a name yet.
“The lessons helped,” I say, my voice trembling. “I learned how to stop being embarrassed. I learned how to trust myself. I learned that I could be... good at wanting. That I didn't have to apologize for it.”
I think about Nate’s hands. Not the way they felt, but the way he *used* them. The way he checked in every five seconds. The way he made me laugh when I was terrified I was doing it wrong. The way he made me feel like my pleasure was a priority, not a chore.
“Nate was safe,” I say. “Not safe like a boring sedan. Safe like... a sanctuary. Like nothing felt small with him.”
Ella’s eyes shine with a sympathy that makes my throat ache. “And then he told me he doesn’t do relationships. He was honest. He didn't lie to get into my bed. He didn't promise me a future. He told me the truth so I wouldn't get hurt.”
“Very responsible,” Ella murmurs, though her tone suggests she finds his responsibility about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine.
“It’s not his fault,” I defend. “He told me the truth, and Ethan is the one who actually wants to date me. So why... why do I still think I want Nate?”
The admission is out there now, hanging in the air like a ghost. I think I want Nate. Not the deal. Not the hockey star. Him. The boy who hydrates me and challenges me and makes the rest of the world feel like it's in black and white.
Ella moves from her bed to mine, the mattress dipping under her weight. She nudges her shoulder against mine. “You’re allowed to realize the thing you wanted before isn’t the thing you want now, Han. People change. Maps change.”
“I don’t want to hurt Ethan. He’s done nothing wrong.”
“I know. But if you keep dating him because he’s the ‘safer’ answer while your heart is somewhere else, eventually that becomes more unfair than just being honest.”
I wipe a stray tear from my cheek. “I don't know if I know for sure.”
Ella doesn't look like she believes me, but she’s a good enough friend to let me have the lie for a few more minutes. “What do you want right now? In this exact second?”
I laugh, a watery, miserable sound. “I want to text him. Nate.”
“What would you say?”
I think of a thousand things. *I miss you.* *I think I'm making a mistake.* *Why did you have to be so damn noble?* Instead, I just shake my head. “I don't know.”
“Then don't text him yet. You just want the feeling of him. The thread.”
She’s right. I want *Bossy* and *Consistent*. I want him to ask if I’m okay so I can tell him I am, even when I’m not. I want the safety of our bubble.
“I wish he was a jerk,” I whisper. “I wish he was arrogant or selfish or mean. It would be so much easier to choose the 'good' boy if the other one was actually bad.”
“But he’s not,” Ella says.
“No. He’s kind of impossible. And he told me he doesn't do girlfriends.”
Ella is quiet for a long moment, staring at Gerald on the desk. “Maybe. Or maybe he said that before he knew what wanting *you* felt like.”
My heart kicks against my ribs with a violence that steals my breath. “Don't say that, Ella. I’ll start believing it.”
“Maybe believing something scary is part of the growth, Han. Just... be honest with yourself. Don't pick Ethan because he's easy, and don't pick Nate because he's loud. Pick the one who feels like home.”
My phone buzzes on the desk. I lunge for it, my pulse spiking. It’s Ethan.
**Ethan:** *Saturday was fun. Still thinking about that mac and cheese cone. Possibly changed me as a person.*
I smile. It’s a small, genuine smile, but it’s tinged with a sadness I can’t shake.
Ethan is easy to smile with. He is a good choice.
But as my eyes drift to Nate’s silent thread above his, I feel the fracture in my chest widening.
Nate is backing off because I asked him to. He’s doing exactly what he promised.
I set the phone down without replying to either.
Nate was supposed to help me get Ethan. He did.
The lessons were supposed to make me ready for someone else.
They didn't. They made me ready for *him*.
And the worst part is realizing that every road I thought was leading me away from Nate was actually just a long, winding circle right back to his front door.