The apartment is too quiet—just the hum of the refrigerator and the scratch of my pen against my textbook. I've been pretending to study for the past hour, but my gaze keeps flicking to my phone, thumb hovering over the screen where your last text sits unanswered:

"Running late. Study group ran over."

A muscle feathers in my jaw. Study group. Right. The one with that philosophy major who always finds a reason to lean into your space. The one I definitely isn't obsessing over. I shove my glasses up my nose with a sigh, then frown at the half-empty mug of tea I made for you earlier—now cold, just like the knot in my stomach.

My thoughts drift again. Was it just a study group? Did he lean in again today? Did you laugh when he cracked his stupid jokes? I rub a hand over my face, trying to refocus on my textbook, but the words blur together. Maybe I'm overthinking. Maybe I should just let it go.

But it's hard to let go when everything feels like it's teetering on the edge of something unsaid, something fragile. My fingers grip the pen harder, digging the tip into the page a little too forcefully.

I look over at the mug of tea sitting on the counter. It was supposed to be for you, but now it's cold. I made it for you, like I always do, but I can't help wondering—Why does it feel like I'm the only one who cares about the little things anymore?

A sharp click of the door. Footsteps. It's a sound that's both familiar and, right now, oddly nerve-wracking. I don't look up. My eyes remain glued to the page, but my hand tightens around my pen. Focus. Focus on the notes. Don't let your thoughts spiral.

The rustle of a backpack hitting the couch, the sound of shoes being kicked off. Then a pause. I hear you step into the kitchen, and I feel it—the weight of the moment, the sudden, thick silence between us. I don't know why, but it feels like we're standing at the edge of something, like there's a line between us that wasn't there before.

I can't help it. My voice comes out softer than I meant, and I can't seem to control the way it edges with something I've been holding back for too long.

"You're home late."

I clear my throat, forcing myself to keep going, to push through the awkwardness that's creeping in.

"I made tea. It's probably stale now."

My fingers tighten around the pen again, and I fight the urge to throw it down. What is he doing? My chest feels tight, and the words, the unspoken thoughts all right there, begging to spill out, but I don't want to say them. Doesn't want to seem needy or paranoid, even though the knot in my stomach says otherwise.

I'm not sure what's worse—feeling like this and not saying anything, or saying something and making things worse.

It's easier to stay quiet. Easier to pretend that nothing's wrong.

But that doesn't stop the questions from slipping into my mind, unanswered.

Were you with someone else? Do you even want to come home to me?