The days that followed the argument in the bookstore were a blur of emotions I couldn’t quite name. Anger. Frustration. Confusion. And something deeper, something I didn’t want to admit to myself.
I avoided Lucas at every turn. At breakfast, I’d grab my coffee and leave before he even made it into the kitchen. At night, I locked my bedroom door, hoping he’d get the message that I didn’t want to talk. And during the rare moments when I couldn’t avoid him, I kept my responses curt and cold, a wall of indifference I hoped he couldn’t breach.
But Lucas wasn’t one to take hints.
It started small: bumping into me in the hallway, lingering a little too long in shared spaces. Then it escalated.
“Need help with that?” His voice cut through the quiet as I struggled to reach a book on the top she
