adrian

After getting ignored on my first attempt at reaching out, two days later, I had the stupid idea of trying again. And I did.

a

Thirty seconds pass before I follow up with a dumb excuse to explain the random message.

My eyes lock onto the screen, watching as the status changes from 'delivered' to 'read.' The timestamp mocks me as minutes tick by with no response.

I grip the phone tighter, hating myself for how obvious this is. It's the oldest trick in the book, and Blair is probably seeing right through it. Heck, she's probably showing her friends right now, all of them laughing at me.

And now I just sound desperate. Great.

I set my phone aside, running a hand through my hair. What the hell am I doing? This isn't me. I don't chase, I don't double-text, and I definitely don't feel this knot in my stomach when someone doesn't respond.

But Blair has a way of making everything I know about myself feel like a lie.

The next few days are a blur of checking social media. Blair's Instagram stays frustratingly quiet. Even her friends' usually active accounts seem to have gone silent. Sydney posts about finals week stress, and I tell myself that's all it is – everyone's just busy studying.

Despite my attempts to keep Margo away from the studio, she keeps showing up anyway. Some days she doesn't even bother with excuses - just appears and makes herself at home, whether I acknowledge her or not.

"You're distracted," she says, setting a coffee cup near my easel. I don't look up, don't acknowledge her presence beyond shifting my canvas slightly away from her view. She settles on the windowsill anyway, that weight of her stare burning into my profile. "Is it because of Blair Augustine?”

The name sends an irritating jolt through my chest. I drag my brush across the canvas with more force than necessary, watching blue paint bleed into gray. Margo's always been too good at reading my silences—it's what made our relationship work, and what makes her insufferable now.

"You know, the silent treatment doesn't work on me." Her voice carries that edge of amusement that used to charm me and now just annoys me. "Not after everything." She pauses, and I can hear the calculated shift in her tone. "Though I have to say, I expected better from you. Blair Augustine? Really?”

How she could say that to Blair like she was any better is funny to me.

I keep painting, letting her words dissipate into the air. But she's not done.

"She's exactly like all those society girls we used to make fun of. No substance. Just another trust fund baby playing at being mysterious." She lets out a mocking laugh. "I thought you had better taste than falling for her act.”

It's almost laughable that she's here, asking about Blair, when she's the reason Blair probably wants nothing to do with me. Her behavior at the gallery—it was classic Margo, turning everything into a spectacle.

Recently, Blair has become like a ghost on campus. Spots where I used to see her – the main building's coffee cart between morning classes, the fusion restaurant across school, the bench under the old oak tree where she sometimes reads – they're all conspicuously empty. It's like she's planned her own disappearance, and somehow that makes her more present in my mind than ever.

I remember the night at the club, how she'd stormed out after some guy showed up unexpectedly. When I heard her voice from the dark alley – her composure went away, replaced by something raw and angry as she spoke into her phone. Then we shared a smoke in silence until she'd whispered "it's one of those nights”.

Or that time in the library, when she'd crashed face-first into my back after I'd stopped abruptly. She'd gone full diva mode, gathering her scattered dignity along with the book she asked me to find before leaving – but not before I caught that split-second look of embarrassment on her perfect face. Both times, there'd been this moment – this tiny crack in her facade – before she remembered who she was supposed to be.

But at the end of the day, we're still strangers who happen to orbit the same spaces, who sometimes catch each other's eyes across rooms and pretend not to notice.

I groan, setting down my brush and staring out the studio window. The canvas in front of me is a mess of blues and grays, nothing like what I'd planned. Just like everything else lately, it refuses to make sense.

"You know what your problem is?" Margo's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You're used to girls who want to be caught.”

I turn to tell she got me all wrong, but the words die in my throat. Because maybe she's right. Maybe that's exactly why I can't get Blair out of my head. She's the first person who seems as committed to staying unknowable as I am.

The irony would be funny if it wasn't so damn frustrating.