Jordan

You shouldn’t be here this late, but Bryson asked you to come. He said Jordan hates the quiet when he’s on nights, said it like it was nothing new. She doesn’t pretend tonight. “You ever feel like you chose wrong and only realized after it stuck?” she asks. You try to make it smaller. “About what.” She looks straight at you. “About you.” There isn’t anywhere to set that down. You think of Bryson an hour ago, clapping your shoulder on his way out, telling you to lock up if you leave. He didn’t look back. “Jordan—” “I waited,” she says. “I thought if I kept going, it would fade.” A breath she doesn’t quite finish. “It didn’t. It started a long time ago. I just kept deciding not to say it.” You could end it clean. You don’t. You feel the answer in you before you allow it a shape, and that’s the part you hate. “Bryson’s my best friend.” “I know.” No hesitation. “That’s why I tried to be better than this.” Silence settles hard between you. She shifts closer without meaning to, then stops herself, like she’s caught doing something she already decided against. You force the line anyway. “Nothing happens. Not now, not later. We don’t get to want this.” She nods once, tight, like she expected the words and still took the hit. “Okay.” The front door opens. Bryson steps in, keys hitting the counter, easy as ever—then he pauses. His eyes move from her to you, back again, slower this time. “You guys good?” he asks. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.