Eight
2243 Words
After Leah told me the truth, I tried to act normal.
I still went to class. I still ate. I still slept. I still laughed when something was funny. But my mind kept going back to that moment at the table. The way she chose her words. The way she watched my face like she needed to know if I was safe.
I wanted to do something. I wanted to fix it. I wanted to erase what happened. I wanted to find her father and tell him exactly what I thought.
I did none of that.
Not because I was calm. Because Leah would have felt it. She would have seen it as me taking control. She would have seen it as another person deciding what was best for her.
So I stayed quiet.
I focused on the things she actually asked for.
Water. Snacks. Company when she wanted it. Space when she asked.
For a few days, the library felt normal again. Leah kept her routine. She came in, chose a seat, opened her book, and acted like the last conversation did not change anything. But I noticed small differences.
She checked her phone more.
She flinched at sudden noises.
She left earlier than usual.
And she watched the entrance more than she used to.
One afternoon, she sat down across from me and said, “I need to ask you something.”
“Okay,” I said.
“If he comes here,” she said, “what will you do.”
I kept my voice steady. “What do you want me to do.”
She stared at me. “Answer the question.”
“I will do what you tell me to do,” I said.
Leah frowned. “No. That is not an answer.”
“It is my answer,” I replied.
She shook her head. “I am not asking you to be my guard.”
“I know,” I said. “So tell me what you want.”
Leah took a breath. “I want you to stay calm.”
“I can do that,” I said.
“I want you to not speak for me,” she continued.
“I will not,” I said.
“And I want you to not do anything that makes it worse,” she added.
I nodded. “Okay.”
She looked at me like she did not fully believe me.
“I mean it,” I said.
Leah stared at her book for a moment, then said, “I do not want drama.”
“I do not want drama either,” I replied.
She finally looked up. “You say that now.”
“I am saying it because you asked,” I said.
Leah nodded once, then opened her book again. The conversation ended the way most conversations with Leah ended. Direct. Quick. No extra comfort.
That night, I went home and tried to push the anger down. I told myself anger did not help her. Anger helped me feel useful, and that was not the point.
The next day, Leah did not come to the library.
I did not text her. I waited.
Later that evening, she sent a message.
He came by today.
I read it twice.
Where.
My building. I did not open.
I typed a reply and deleted it.
Then I typed.
Do you want me to come.
She replied.
No. I handled it.
I stared at my phone.
I wanted to say I was proud of her. I wanted to say she did not deserve this. I wanted to say I was sorry.
Instead I wrote.
Okay. I am here.
She did not respond.
The next afternoon she showed up at the library and acted normal. She sat at a different table, not our usual one, and started reading right away. I waited a few minutes before I joined her. I sat down and opened my book.
She did not look up. She just said, “Do not ask.”
“I was not going to,” I replied.
“Good,” she said.
We read in silence for a long time. Then Leah closed her book and asked, “Are you angry.”
I looked up. “About him.”
“Yes.”
I took a breath. “Yes.”
Leah nodded slowly. “Do not do anything.”
“I will not,” I said.
She kept watching me. “Promise.”
I paused, then said, “I promise.”
Leah looked away like that was all she needed.
Later, when we left the library, she walked faster than usual.
“Are you going home,” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Do you want me to walk with you.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Just to the corner.”
“Okay,” I said.
We walked together until we reached the corner near. She stopped and turned to me.
“Go home,” she said.
“You too,” I replied.
She stood there for a moment like she wanted to say something else. Then she said, “If I pull away, do not chase.”
My chest tightened. “Why would you pull away.”
Leah’s face stayed calm, but her eyes looked tired. “Because I get overwhelmed.”
“Okay,” I said, even though I hated the word.
She nodded. “Okay means you understand.”
“It means I heard you,” I replied.
Leah looked down at the pavement. “Good.”
Then she walked away.
That was the first time she said something like that out loud. She had pulled away before, but she had never warned me. She had never asked me not to chase. It felt like she was preparing for something.
For the next week, Leah was in and out.
She came to the library twice. She left early both times.
She did not invite me to groceries.
She did not call.
She only sent short texts.
Busy.
Tired.
Later.
I stayed calm like I promised.
I did not chase.
I did not show up at her building.
I did not keep asking questions.
Still, it was hard. Not because I needed constant contact, but because I could feel something shifting. She was getting distant, and I did not know if it was her father, or fear, or both.
On Friday evening, she called.
I answered.
“Hi,” I said.
“Are you at home,” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “Do you want me to come out.”
“No,” she said quickly. “Just stay there.”
“Okay,” I said. “What’s going on.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “He called from a different number.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I answered by mistake,” she continued.
“What did he say,” I asked.
Leah’s voice stayed flat. “He said he is sorry. He said he has changed. He said he wants to see me.”
“And what did you say,” I asked.
“I said no,” she replied.
I felt relief, then anger again, then worry.
Leah added, “He said he will not stop trying.”
I kept my voice calm. “That is not your problem to solve.”
“It feels like it is,” she said.
“It is not,” I replied.
She was quiet again. Then she said, “I hate that you know.”
“Why,” I asked.
“Because now you will think about it when you look at me,” she said.
I chose my words carefully. “I think about you when I look at you. Not him.”
Leah did not answer.
I continued, “I am not going to treat you differently. I am going to treat you the way I already did. The way you asked.”
Leah’s voice got quieter. “People always say that. Then they change.”
“I know,” I replied. “But I am here. And I am still the same person I was last month.”
She breathed out. “You are not the same.”
I frowned. “What do you mean.”
“You are more careful now,” she said. “You watch me more.”
“I am trying to make sure you are okay,” I replied.
Leah’s tone sharpened. “That is exactly what I mean.”
I sat up. “Leah, I am sorry. I did not mean to make you feel watched.”
“I do not want to feel like a project,” she said.
“You are not,” I said quickly. “You are not a project. You are a person I care about.”
There was silence on the line.
Then Leah said, “Care can still feel heavy.”
“I know,” I said.
She paused. “Do you.”
“Yes,” I replied. “So tell me what you need.”
Leah sighed. “I need you to be normal again.”
“I can try,” I said.
“Not try,” she replied. “Just do it.”
“Okay,” I said.
She was quiet again, then she asked, “Can you come to the library tomorrow.”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Our table,” she added.
My chest tightened. “Okay.”
“And do not bring your worried face,” she said.
I let out a small laugh. “I will leave it at home.”
“Good,” Leah said. “Four o’clock.”
Then she hung up.
The next day, I arrived at the library at three forty five. I did not go to the table. I walked around first, then came back closer to four. I did not want to look like I had been waiting in her seat.
Leah arrived at four exactly. Cardigan on. Glasses on. Hair tied back. Coffee in hand.
She sat down, placed her book on the table, and looked at me.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” I replied.
She stared at my face for a second, then nodded. “Better.”
“You mean less worried.”
“Yes,” she said.
“I am still worried,” I admitted.
Leah opened her book. “Do it quietly.”
I smiled. “Okay.”
We read for a while. Then Leah closed her book and said, “Tell me something true.”
I took a breath. “I wanted to break my promise.”
Leah’s eyes lifted. “What promise.”
“The one about not doing anything,” I said.
Her face tightened slightly. “Doing what.”
“Going to him,” I admitted. “Saying something. Making him afraid to come near you.”
Leah stared at me. “And you did not.”
“I did not,” I said. “Because you asked me not to.”
Leah looked down at the table. “Good.”
“That is the truth,” I added. “I wanted to. But I did not.”
Leah nodded once. “Thank you.”
It was a simple word, but it landed hard. Leah did not say thank you often.
I kept my voice calm. “You do not have to thank me for basic respect.”
“I am still thanking you,” she replied.
Then she opened her book again.
After an hour, Leah packed up.
“I’m leaving,” she said.
“Okay,” I replied.
She stood, then hesitated.
“I might be busy for a while,” she said.
“With what,” I asked, then stopped myself. “Sorry. You do not have to answer.”
Leah watched me. “I am applying for something.”
“What kind of something,” I asked.
She paused. “A program. A transfer. I don’t know yet.”
My stomach dropped, but I kept my face calm.
“That is good,” I said.
Leah nodded. “It might mean I leave.”
I held my breath. “Okay.”
She looked at me closely. “You are doing the calm thing.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Say what you want to say,” Leah replied.
I swallowed. “I will miss you.”
Leah’s jaw tightened. Her eyes looked wet for a moment, then she blinked and controlled it again.
“I know,” she said quietly. “That is why I did not want you to make it a big thing.”
“I am not,” I said.
She nodded. “Good.”
Then she said, “If it happens, I will tell you.”
“Okay,” I replied.
She turned to leave, then looked back.
“And if I disappear, don’t chase,” she said again.
My chest tightened. “Leah.”
She lifted her hand slightly, cutting me off. “Promise.”
I hesitated.
Then I said, “I promise.”
Leah nodded once, then walked away.
I sat there for a long time after she left, staring at the page in front of me and not reading a word.
I had promised her twice now.
And I had no idea how to keep a promise that could cost me her.
- Writer
