Chapter 9: The Weight of Words

The quad was still buzzing when I stumbled away from Timothy’s “Why’re you pushing me away?”—his voice raw, his eyes wild under the streetlights. Sarah’s car had idled there, her silhouette a silent threat, and I’d mumbled some excuse—“I’ll call you later”—before bolting, leaving him standing in the dark. Her headlights had followed me halfway home, a predator tracking prey, until she peeled off with a sharp honk that said “Don’t test me.” Now, the next afternoon, the campus thrummed with midweek chaos, and I was hiding in the student union, the ring box a cold weight in my pocket, Timothy’s hurt a ghost I couldn’t shake.

The debate club met in a lecture hall off the main lounge, a cavern of scuffed desks and flickering projectors that smelled like burnt coffee and dry-erase markers. I’d tagged along with Leo, needing noise to drown out the silence Timothy had left behind—no texts, no calls, just that wounded “What’s going on?” looping in my head. Students milled around, voices sharp and eager, arguing over tuition hikes like it was a blood sport. A girl in a blazer waved a stack of notes, shouting, “It’s highway robbery!” while a guy in a hoodie fired back, “Subsidies won’t fix it!” I slouched in a back row, the ring box pressing against my thigh, the chaos a flimsy shield against the mess in my chest.

Leo sprawled beside me, his knit cap pulled low, scribbling in a notebook like he cared about the debate. He’d been quiet since the brunch—since Sarah’s ban, since he’d watched Timothy chase me across the quad last night—but his eyes kept flicking my way, sharp and restless. “You look like hell,” he muttered, not looking up, his pen scratching against the page.

“Thanks,” I said, voice flat, staring at the projector screen where some pie chart glowed, meaningless. “Feel like it too.”

He snorted, capping his pen. “Tim’s a wreck, you know. Kept asking me what’s up with you after you ditched him last night. Said you’ve been a ghost since the barbecue.”

I shifted, the chair creaking under me, and rubbed my face. “It’s just family stress,” I lied, the script worn thin. “Sarah’s on me about stuff. He’ll get over it.”

“Stuff,” Leo echoed, finally looking at me, his smirk gone. “That’s what you’re calling it? The ring? Emma? Her whole ‘cut him out’ routine?” His voice dropped, low and pointed, and I froze, the air thickening between us.

“Keep it down,” I hissed, glancing around. The debaters were too loud to hear—blazer girl was slamming her fist on a desk now, yelling about admin greed—but my pulse kicked up, a drumbeat in my ears. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that,” he shot back, leaning closer, his elbow knocking my arm. “You’re letting her choke you, Mo. And Tim’s caught in the crossfire—he’s hurting, and you’re too scared to tell him why.”

I clenched my jaw, the ring box a lead weight, Sarah’s “This ends tonight” clashing with Timothy’s “Why’re you pushing me away?” “He doesn’t need to know,” I said, quieter than I meant, staring at my hands. “It’ll just mess him up more.”

Leo’s eyes narrowed, dark under the cap’s brim. “He’s already messed up. You think he doesn’t feel you pulling away? He’s not blind, Mo.”

Before I could answer, the door banged open, and Timothy strode in, all denim and determination, his golden hair messy from the wind. My stomach dropped, a cold lurch, and the room tilted, heads turning his way. He scanned the crowd, spotting me, and marched over, ignoring the debate’s chaos—blazer girl mid-rant, hoodie guy scribbling rebuttals. “Mo,” he said, stopping short, hands on his hips. “We need to talk. Now.”

Leo raised an eyebrow, leaning back like he was watching a show, and I sank lower, the chair’s edge digging into my spine. “Here?” I mumbled, voice cracking. “It’s loud.”

“Don’t care,” he said, stepping closer, his sneakers scuffing the tile. His hazel eyes locked on mine, bright and blazing, edged with something raw—hurt, maybe anger. “You’ve been dodging me since last night—since the quad, since brunch. What’s going on? And don’t say ‘nothing.’”

The room faded, the debate a dull roar, and I gripped the desk, Sarah’s threat a steel trap in my head. “It’s just family stress,” I said, the lie tasting like ash, my throat tight. “Sarah’s on my case. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” He laughed, sharp and bitter, leaning down so his face was level with mine. “You’re lying, Mo. I know you. You’ve been weird for weeks—ditching pizza, brushing me off, running from me last night. What’s she doing to you? What aren’t you telling me?”

His voice broke on that last bit, a crack that sliced through me, and I looked away, the projector’s glow blurring in my vision. “It’s complicated,” I muttered, fingers digging into the wood. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me,” he snapped, grabbing the chair next to me and swinging it around to sit, his knee brushing mine. “You’re my best friend, Mo. I’m not letting you shut me out without a fight.”

Leo shifted, his pen tapping the desk, and I felt his eyes on us, heavy and knowing. The debate surged—“They’re bleeding us dry!”—but Timothy’s stare pinned me, unyielding, and my chest caved, a slow collapse. “I can’t,” I said, voice splintering, and stood, ready to bolt, but he grabbed my arm, firm and warm, stopping me cold.

“Mo, wait—” he started, but my phone buzzed, loud against the desk, cutting through. Sarah’s name glowed, and I yanked free, snatching it up, my pulse racing. “Meet Emma’s parents tonight. 7pm. Don’t be late.” The words sank in, a noose tightening, and I shoved it in my pocket, breath shallow.

“Family stuff again?” Timothy asked, voice low, his hand still hovering where I’d pulled away. “That’s your excuse every time.”

“Yeah,” I lied, turning for the door, the ring box thudding with every step. “Gotta go.”

“Mo!” he called, standing, but Leo grabbed his sleeve, holding him back. I didn’t look, just pushed through the crowd—past blazer girl, past the projector’s hum—into the hall, the air cooler but no less suffocating. Footsteps followed, quieter this time, and I turned, expecting Timothy’s desperate “Talk to me.”

It was Leo, his cap low, hands in his pockets. He stopped a few feet away, eyes dark and steady. “He deserves to know,” he muttered, voice low, cutting through the hall’s echo. “You’re killing him, Mo.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came, the weight of it all—Sarah, Emma, Timothy—crushing me. Before I could answer, Timothy burst through the door, his face flushed, eyes blazing, and grabbed my arm again, tighter this time. “No more running,” he said, voice shaking, and the hall shrank, the debate’s noise a distant roar, his grip a lifeline I couldn’t take.