Clara tried to pretend the cafeteria never happened.

She went to bed early. Woke up before her alarm. Avoided the mirror. Avoided her phone. Avoided thoughts.

But her chest felt tight. Like something was sitting on her lungs. Like she couldn’t breathe deep enough.

I won’t think about it.

I won’t think about him.

I won’t think about any of it.

She repeated the words like scripture.

By the time she entered her lecture hall for History of the Sixth Century Deciders, she had her mask on again:

Calm. Quiet. Unaffected.

She sat in her usual seat. Unpacked her notebook. Focused her eyes on the board.

Professor Grant began, “As we move into the Sixth-century political structures—”

A chair scraped beside her.

Her pulse stalled.

No. No, no, no—

Cole dropped into the seat next to her like he belonged there.

Clara stared straight ahead, jaw locking. “I told you to leave me alone.”

Cole’s voice was low. Not teasing today. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

That made it worse.

She flipped her notebook open sharply, like the sound alone could create a barrier. “I don’t need you to check on me.”

“Clara—”

“Stop.” Her voice wavered but she forced steel into it. “I mean it.”

But Cole didn’t move.

Professor Grant continued lecturing, but the world narrowed to the space between them — thick, heavy, charged.

Cole leaned in slightly. “I didn’t mean to make things worse yesterday—”

“You did,” Clara cut in, voice sharp as glass. “You embarrassed me. You made it look like—”

Her throat closed. She blinked rapidly. “Like I needed you to save me.”

Cole’s brows pulled together. “I stepped in because she was being cruel—”

“Everyone saw,” Clara snapped. “Everyone saw you defend me like I was weak. Like I can’t handle myself.”

The room suddenly felt too loud. Too bright.

Cole lowered his voice further. “I know you can handle yourself. I’ve seen you. But you shouldn’t have to fight alone.”

“Don’t,” Clara whispered, voice cracking. “Don’t say things like that. You don’t mean them.”

Cole exhaled — like the words physically hurt him. “I do mean them.”

And something inside Clara broke.

The professor’s voice blurred. The classroom vanished.

Because all she could feel was eyes. Watching her in the cafeteria. Watching her now. Watching her always.

She stood up suddenly, pushing her chair back with a harsh scrape.

Professor Grant paused. “Miss Bennett? Is there an issue?”

“No. I—I just need a moment.” Her voice shook.

She left the room fast, head down, breath uneven.

Cole was up before the door swung closed.

“Clara—”

She speed-walked down the hallway, vision blurring. “Go away.”

He followed, footsteps echoing behind her. “Clara, stop.”

“I said go away!”

He caught her wrist gently — not forceful, not rough — just enough to stop her.

She turned—

And the dam burst.

Her voice shook, cracked, spilled out raw, jagged:

“Why won’t you leave me alone?! Why do you have to follow me everywhere?! Why can’t you just—just—”

Her breath hitched. Tears burned. “Just stop looking at me like that!”

Cole froze.

Clara’s tears fell hard now, unstoppable.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she choked. “To be laughed at. To be replaced. To be the joke. To have people look at you like you’re pathetic.”

Her voice broke completely.

“And then you come in — defending me — acting like you care and I can’t— I can’t—”

She covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.

Cole’s expression shattered.

He moved — slowly — like approaching something fragile that could break further.

“Clara,” he whispered. “I don’t think you’re pathetic. Not for one second. I don’t care what they say. I don’t care what happened before I knew you. I—”

“No!” Clara sobbed, shaking her head violently. “Don’t say anything. Don’t make this harder. I can’t— I don’t know how to—”

Her throat closed completely.

She ripped her wrist free, turned—and ran.

Not walking.

Not storming.

Running.

And this time—

Cole didn’t follow.

He stood there.

Watching the girl who hated being protected.

The girl who didn’t know how to be loved.

Run away from the first person who actually meant it.

His hands curled helplessly at his sides.

Not frustrated.

Not angry.

Shattered.

He whispered to the empty hallway:

“…I’m not leaving.”

But she was already gone.