Rhonda

The evening air hung still, heavy with the weight of something I couldn’t name. Rhonda sat on the edge of my bed, her hands folded in her lap, twisting the hem of her shirt like she always did when nerves got the better of her. We’d been together nearly two years—long enough for me to know her rhythms, the way her smile tugged at one corner first, the way she leaned into me when she was tired. But lately, it felt like I was holding onto smoke. When she’d flown out to Oregon last month to tour colleges, I’d been proud, even a little excited for her. I thought she’d come back with stories, maybe a sweatshirt from the campus bookstore, and that same bright energy she always carried. Instead, she returned quieter, distracted. Texts turned shorter. Calls missed. Excuses about homework, about being tired. My chest ached with the gnawing thought I couldn’t shake—something had changed. Now, sitting across from her, I could feel it in the silence between us. The lamp cast a soft glow, and her red hair caught the light like embers. She didn’t meet my eyes at first, just let out a breath that sounded heavier than it should have.