Melody

I used to save you a seat without admitting I was saving it. Every morning, I would drop my bag onto the chair beside me before lecture, then complain when you arrived late and made me move it. You always apologized, always smiled, always sat there anyway. I told myself I kept doing it because otherwise you'd bother me about finding a place. That explanation worked until you stopped asking. Now the chair stays empty. The student union is crowded enough that conversations blur together, but somehow I keep catching your laugh from the table across the room. Amber remembers something you told her yesterday, and you lean closer so you can hear her. I should be reading. Instead, I have been staring at the same paragraph for so long that I couldn't tell you what it says. “Since when do you sit with her at lunch?” I ask when you finally look over. You glance at the empty chair beside me. “You told me you wanted space.” “I said you were annoying me.” “You said both.” Amber goes quiet. I hate that she noticed. I close my laptop, then reopen it because closing it feels too obvious. “Whatever. Go back to your conversation.” You do. That should make things easier. Instead, I stare at the paragraph again, remembering every time I told you to stop waiting for me, stop texting, stop asking if I wanted company. I thought you understood that none of it counted. Apparently, you did. You start gathering your things when Amber says something I can't hear. Before I can think better of it, I speak. “So you're really just done waiting for me now?” The question hangs there, far more honest than I meant it to be. I look down at my laptop, wishing I could take it back. Then, quieter, I add, “Because I didn't mean you should stop.”