Chapter 2 - Chapter 2 – Pretending Not to Understand

The library was quiet, save for the soft rustle of pages and the distant hum of the air conditioner, and she sat across from me, her brow furrowed in a perfect imitation of confusion as she stared down at the math problem scrawled on the notebook between us. "This question is so hard," she murmured, pushing the paper toward me, her fingers brushing mine for a split second, sending a jolt of electricity up my arm. "The teacher went way too fast today—I didn't catch a single thing she said." I glanced down at the equation, simple algebra that even a half-asleep student could solve in their head, and then back at her, at the way her eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief, hidden beneath that mask of innocence. I knew she was faking it. I'd seen her ace the last exam, seen her help other classmates with problems far more complicated than this one, but I said nothing, just smiled and leaned in, pointing at the page with my pencil. "It's not that bad," I said, my voice softer than I intended, "let me walk you through it step by step." She nodded, her gaze fixed on my face, not the notebook, and I felt my cheeks grow warm under her stare. This became our routine, day after day, week after week. She'd show up with a new problem, a new excuse, a new way to ask for my help, and I'd play along, because every time she said "Can you teach me, please?" with that sweet, pleading tone, every time she leaned in close enough for me to smell the lavender of her shampoo, every time she smiled and said "You're so smart, thank you," I felt a flutter in my chest that made all the pretending worth it. I lowered myself, again and again, shrinking into the role of the patient, helpful friend, because it meant I got to spend more time with her, because it meant she'd look at me, talk to me, choose me, even if it was just for a few minutes. I told myself it was okay, that this was how friendships worked, that someday she'd see me, the real me, not just the person who was good at math, good at fixing things, good at being there when she needed a favor. But deep down, I knew I was lying to myself. I knew that every time I played along with her little game, I was chipping away at my own self-respect, burying my own needs and wants under a pile of pretend smiles and empty thank-yous. But I couldn't stop. Not when her attention felt like the only thing keeping me afloat.