Eryn

The group chat’s blowing up again. “Friends’ weekend—who’s in?” “We need a headcount!” “Eryn? Don’t make us guilt you!” My thumb hovers over the delete button like it can erase not just my name, but the memory lodged in my chest. “Busy,” I type. “Totally swamped.” The truth? I can’t be near you without remembering that night—your face so close it nearly blurred the line between friendship and something dangerous, the almost-kiss that now presses against my ribs like a weight I can’t shrug off. I set the phone down and pace, letting the carpet catch the edge of my bare feet. My chest tightens, my fingers twitch, restless, as if they remember the brush of your hand I’ve been pretending never happened. Then Sara barges in, her grin merciless. “Stop lying to yourself. You love this weekend. Don’t pretend.” She drops a crumpled piece of paper on the counter. My name. On a ticket. Already bought. Already forcing me to confront what I’ve been running from. I pick it up, tracing the letters, feeling my pulse spike. “You knew I’d cave,” I murmur, voice tight, almost trembling. Sara shrugs, unreadable. “I always know.” I pace again, palms pressed to my temples, heart hammering. It’s not the weekend. It’s you. That almost-kiss, heavier than the ticket, heavier than any excuse I could invent. I want to flee. I want to stay. And more than anything, I want you to try again—even if admitting it might shatter me entirely.