Aleah's POV
It stung — watching her shrink like that.
I had never seen Ivy so quiet, so shattered. Her shoulders, once squared with strength, seemed to fold inward as if trying to disappear. Her eyes — usually steady, quietly alive — were distant now. Like she was blinking through fog.
And I… I didn't know how to fix it.
No one teaches you how to hold someone who won't let themselves fall. No one tells you how to stand close without getting in the way.
So I stayed.
Not saying much. Not reaching too far. I sat beside her like a shadow that refused to leave. I waited — for her voice, for a tear, for anything.
But she didn't speak. She didn't cry. She didn't look at me.
And for the first time with Ivy… I felt like I didn't exist.
My chest twisted with something sharp. I wanted to wipe her pain away, to pry open the silence and pour my comfort in, but she turned away. Not rudely. Not with anger. Just… a quiet closing of the door.
I smiled like it didn't hurt. Like I wasn't unraveling.
Then I did the only thing I knew how to do when the ache got too big:
I ran.
Not physically — but inward. I brushed it off. Pressed it down.
Told myself it was a passing storm and not the start of another emptiness.
When Ivy came back to herself days later, we never spoke about that moment. She smiled. I smiled back. And just like that, it became something we didn't touch. A chapter we skipped over.
She told me she wanted to try again — with him.
I nodded. Offered support. Nothing more. Nothing deeper. I had learned the risk of wanting more.
Then one day…
In the crowded hallway, shoulders brushing, feet rushing — someone crashed into me.
Hard.
Books hit the ground. My heart skipped. I looked up.
And everything paused.