Your Friends
1301 Words
The car dropped me off at 9:14 PM.
No Lucien. Just the note. Just the door closing behind me. Just the sound of the engine fading down my street.
I stood on my porch for five full minutes before I went inside. Like if I waited long enough, the night would reset and I’d wake up back in the library, one smile lighter.
Aisha was on the couch, earbuds in, laughing at something on her phone. She pulled one out when she saw me.
“You’re late,” she said. “And you smell like cedar. New cologne?”
“Bus was slow,” I lied. Dropped my bag. Hands still shaking.
Aisha frowned. “You’ve been weird since lecture. Since Ghost Boy.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Why? It fits. He shows up, stares, vanishes.” She paused. “You’re not seeing him, are you? Maya, he’s bad news. My cousin said he collects people.”
Collects. Like stamps. Like data. Like me.
I forced a smile. “He’s just a donor. Intense, but harmless.”
Aisha didn’t believe me. But she let it go. Sunday was her call day. Her brother in Texas. She always called at 7 PM sharp.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow Lucien would start on my friends.
---
Monday morning. Stats class.
Ben slid into the seat next to me like always. Pen in one hand. Notes in the other. Grin that said he thought I didn’t notice him noticing me.
“Hey,” he said. “You missed the review session. Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I said. Didn’t look up. “Just busy.”
“You and Ghost Boy have something going on?” He tried to make it a joke. Failed.
“No,” I said too fast. “He’s… nothing.”
Ben relaxed. Opened his notebook. “Good. Because I was thinking, after midterm, maybe coffee? Not the campus crap. Real coffee. Off campus.”
My phone buzzed under the desk.
L: He won’t get coffee. He won’t get you. Delete his number.
I didn’t. I locked the screen.
Professor Patel walked in. “Schedule change,” she announced. “Lab groups reassigned for midterm projects. Check the board.”
I didn’t check. I already knew.
Ben stood. Looked at the list. His face fell.
“Maya… I’m in Group 4. You’re Group 2.”
Group 2 was by the window. Group 4 was by the door. Opposite sides of the room. Different partners. Different times.
“Must be random,” I said quietly.
“Random,” Ben repeated. Didn’t sound convinced. “Since when does Patel do random?”
Lucien sat in the back. Same seat. Same notebook. He didn’t look up. Didn’t need to. He’d written my schedule. He could rewrite Ben’s too.
After class, Ben caught my arm. “Hey. We can still study, right? Same café?”
My phone buzzed.
L: He’ll be reassigned to evening labs next week. Tell him no.
I pulled my arm back. “I’m… really busy with Psych. Maybe after midterms.”
Ben’s grin faded. “Oh. Yeah. Sure.”
He walked away. Shoulders down. Like he’d lost something and didn’t know what.
Lucien stood when I did. Fell into step beside me. Not touching. Just there.
“I started small,” he said, voice low enough only I could hear. “Your seat. Your coffee. Your schedule.”
“Stop saying that,” I whispered.
“Then stop testing me,” he said.
We reached the quad. He paused at the fountain. Same spot as Friday.
“Ben likes you,” he said. “Ben thinks persistence wins. Ben is wrong.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do,” Lucien said simply. “Because you’re mine. And I don’t share.”
He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t threatening. He was stating facts. Cold, brilliant, terrifying facts.
“How did you change the lab groups?” I asked. “Patel doesn’t—”
“I fund the department,” he said. “And Patel’s grant renewal is next month. She’s very… flexible.”
My stomach twisted. “That’s abuse of power.”
“That’s protection,” he corrected. “Ben’s intentions aren’t pure. Mine are. I want you safe. I want you focused. I want you not distracted by boys who think ‘u up?’ is a personality.”
I wanted to slap him. I wanted to run. I wanted to be the girl who smiled at everyone and meant nothing by it.
Instead I stood there while he watched me like I was a problem he’d already solved.
---
Sunday. 6:58 PM.
Aisha sat cross-legged on the floor, phone to her ear. “Hey, bro. Yeah, I’m good. Psych is killing me but—”
The call dropped.
She frowned. Redialed. “What the— one bar. We never lose signal here.”
I sat on my bed, pretending to read. Heart in my throat.
Aisha tried again. “Bro? You there? Hello?”
Static. Then a voice. Not her brother’s. Male. Smooth.
“Wrong number.”
Click.
Aisha stared at her phone. “That was weird. He always has perfect reception.”
My phone buzzed on the desk.
L: Your friends. Sunday 7 PM. Calls dropped. Safer for her.
I grabbed my phone. Thumbed out a reply before I could stop myself.
Me: Stop. This is her brother.
Three dots. Then:
L: I know. Which is why I let the call connect for 12 seconds. I’m not cruel, Maya. I’m careful.
Careful. Right. Careful was changing lab groups. Careful was cutting phone lines. Careful was a man who didn’t ask. He takes.
Aisha tried her brother again. This time it went through. She laughed, relieved. “Weird glitch. Love you too. Bye.”
She hung up and looked at me. “You’re pale again. You sure you’re okay?”
“Fine,” I lied. “Just tired.”
That night I lay in bed listening to her breathe. Listening to K-pop leaking from her earbuds. Listening to the silence where Lucien’s eyes should be.
He was watching. Always.
Monday morning I woke to a text.
L: Coffee. 2:08 PM. Oat latte. Extra shot. I’ll be at your table.
Row C. Third table from the window. My seat. His seat. Our seat now.
I didn’t go. I went to the other side of the library. Hid behind a stack of journals. Told myself that was power.
At 2:10 PM my phone buzzed.
Photo message.
My table. Empty. Except his notebook. Open.
New page. My handwriting. But not mine.
Aisha - calls drop at 7 PM. Ben - moved to evening labs. Maya - sits alone now. Good.
Below it, in his sharp, precise script:
I told you. I don’t ask. I take. And I chose you.
I deleted the photo. Blocked the number. Again.
It unblocked itself by 3 PM.
He says he’s protecting me. But his eyes say I’m already his.
And as I walked home at dusk, taking the front path like he wanted, I felt it.
The streetlight by the bookstore flickered. Once. Twice. Then went dark.
A car idled at the curb. Black. Tinted windows. Driver in front.
Back door open. Warm seat.
No Lucien. Just expectation.
My phone buzzed.
L: Freedom is overrated. Safety isn’t. Get in.
I stood there. Twenty years old. Lively. Wanted normal.
The light stayed dark.
I got in.
The door closed. Soft. Final.
Lucien wasn’t inside. Just another note.
You chose safety. Smart girl. Tomorrow, sit next to me. I’m tired of notebooks between us.
The car moved.
I pressed my forehead to the glass and whispered to no one: “I’m not yours.”
But the car kept driving.
And somewhere, Lucien Ashford was watching.
- Writer
