Maya had felt the walls of her carefully constructed world beginning to collapse under the weight of Ethan's unwavering stare and impossible questions. The next practice proved that some collapses created their own dangerous momentum.
The afternoon session hummed with the weight of unfinished words and unresolved tensions that seemed to thicken the California air like humidity. Ethan's question from the day before—What aren't you telling me?—still echoed in Maya's chest like a heartbeat that wouldn't settle into normal rhythm. She'd never answered, couldn't answer, had simply mumbled something about needing to get to study hall before pushing past him with shaking hands.
He's still waiting. Every time he looks at me, he's waiting for an answer I can't give.
And now every glance from Ethan felt sharper, heavier, loaded with the patient determination of someone who'd decided that waiting was a temporary strategy rather than a permanent solution.
