The glow from the gala lasted exactly forty-eight hours. It carried Amelia through a weekend of studying, infusing her with a quiet, steady warmth. She found herself smiling for no reason, the memory of Adrian's hand in hers playing on a loop in her mind. She didn't hear from him, but she didn't expect to. They had crossed a threshold; the rules had changed.
On Monday, she walked into Literature 202 with a new, quiet confidence. She didn't feel like an imposter sliding into seat 12 anymore. She felt like she belonged there, next to him.
But the seat next to her was empty.
A flicker of disappointment, sharp and quick, pricked at her. Maybe he was running late. Professor Evans began her lecture, and Amelia kept one eye on the door, but it never opened. The space beside her remained a conspicuous void for the entire ninety minutes. The absence felt louder than his presence ever had.
After class, she sent a simple text. Amelia:You missed Evans. She assigned a new essay on Woolf. Hope everything's ok.
There was no immediate reply. Hours passed. Then a day.
The silence became a presence, a cold fog that seeped into the spaces the gala's warmth had occupied. By Tuesday, when his seat was again empty, the confidence had curdled into a low-grade anxiety. Had she imagined the entire connection? Had the vulnerability on the balcony been a moment of weakness he now regretted?
She threw herself into her work at the Grounds Keep, channeling her confused energy into the rhythmic, mindless tasks of grinding beans and steaming milk. The familiar routine was a comfort.
"You're awfully quiet today," Ethan noted, watching her aggressively wipe down the espresso machine for the third time. "Everything okay? Post-gala crash?"
Amelia sighed, the cloth stilling. "It's stupid. He's just… disappeared. No texts. Didn't show up to class. It's like the guy from the gala was a pod person."
Ethan leaned against the counter, his expression thoughtful. "Look, I'm the last person to defend that guy, but… have you considered it's not about you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You said his world is intense. That his dad is a piece of work. Maybe something came up. Family stuff. The kind of stuff that doesn't leave a lot of room for texting your… library study partner." He said the last words gently, without malice.
Amelia considered this. She had been so wrapped up in her own feelings of rejection, she hadn't let herself consider the other, more plausible explanation: Alistair Vale. The chilling smile, the word "distraction." Had their moment on the balcony been discovered? Had Adrian been punished for his moment of truth?
The thought was a cold splash of water. This wasn't a game. The stakes in his world were real and had consequences she couldn't fathom.
On Wednesday, he was in his seat when she arrived.
Her heart leapt, then immediately sank. He looked… hollow. There were shadows under his eyes, and his posture was rigid. He didn't look at her as she sat down, his focus entirely on his untouched notebook.
"Hey," she whispered. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," he said, the single word clipped and distant.
He was a million miles away. The boy from the balcony was locked away again, replaced by a colder, harder version than the one she'd first met. This wasn't the performative arrogance of the first day; this was a genuine, impenetrable wall.
He participated in the class discussion when called upon, his answers sharp and intelligent but utterly devoid of the playful fire she was used to. He was a machine. When the lecture ended, he packed his bag with swift, efficient movements.
"Adrian, wait," she said, standing as he did.
"I can't. I have to go." He finally met her eyes, and what she saw there made her breath catch. It wasn't indifference. It was a pained, desperate apology, quickly shuttered. "Family stuff. I'll… see you around, Reed."
Reed. Not Amelia. Not Library Girl. Reed. It was the most distant, formal thing he could have called her.
He was gone before she could form a response, leaving her standing alone in the bustling aisle, the chill of his withdrawal settling deep in her bones. The pullback was a physical force, and it hurt more than any of their early arguments ever had. Ethan was right. It wasn't about her. It was about the web. And she was caught in the recoil.