Malik stopped talking to me at school.
Not completely. Not like he hated me. But the easy laughter, the small nudges, the handshakes that used to be ordinary — they all vanished.
I followed him from a distance anyway, as I always did. But it wasn't the same. His shoulders were tense. His eyes constantly scanned, not for friends, but for me.
And every glance he threw in my direction made my chest tighten.
After school, I found him sitting on the curb outside the park. Alone.
"Malik," I said softly.
He didn't look at me.
I walked closer. "What are you doing here?"
He finally turned, but not with a smile. His eyes were guarded. "Nothing."
"Just… sitting?" I tried, my voice trembling.
He scoffed lightly, almost humorless. "I need some space."
Space.
The word hit me harder than the cold wind biting at my cheeks.
I swallowed. "Why?"
He shrugged, avoiding my gaze. "You're… different lately."
I froze. The sentences inside my mind started spinning. Different. Dangerous. Responsible.
"You're obsessing over me," he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "Watching me all the time. Following me. You can't leave me alone, can you?"
The words pierced through me.
Because he was right.
I opened my mouth to defend myself, to lie, but no words came.
He stepped closer, arms crossed. "I don't know why, but I can feel it. Something's wrong. You're… hiding something."
I felt the familiar freeze in my chest. My skin prickled. I remembered the first sentence I'd ever heard from him: It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
Now I wondered if that sentence had been growing for years.
"Amara," he said softly, leaning in, "what are you hiding from me?"
I couldn't answer.
"I wish I never trusted her."
The words echoed inside me, not from him, but from my own mind. I knew the sentence had already formed — that my obsession, my fear, my watching, was changing him.
I wanted to reach for him, to hug him, to fix this.
But the words stopped me.
"She will destroy everything she loves."
I pulled back. Took a step.
"I… I'm fine," I whispered.
He stared at me, eyes narrowing. "You're lying."
Three words that hurt more than a punch.
That night, I didn't sleep.
I sat in my room, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house breathe.
I imagined every possibility. Every moment Malik had ever interacted with me, every time I had touched him, every time I had tried to protect him.
And I realized the truth:
My obsession wasn't protecting him.
It was pushing him away.
It was shaping the sentences I heard.
It was building the cracks that would break him.
And somewhere deep inside, I knew it was already too late.
The next morning, Malik avoided me completely at breakfast. Not a glance. Not a word. His backpack straps hung heavy on his shoulders, like armor.
I wanted to reach out. I wanted to apologize.
But I knew…
The sentences were watching.
The future was already moving.
And no matter what I did next… I was part of the story now.