ETHAN'S POV.
Avoiding Aria had become a routine.
I took longer routes across campus, skipped places I knew she liked, timed my day around maybes and what-ifs. It wasn't cowardice—I told myself it was respect. Space. The thing she'd asked for without ever saying it out loud.
But campus had its own sense of irony.
The charity fundraiser wasn't tied to any department. It was one of those campus-wide events everyone pretended they could skip until attendance became… noticed. I showed up late, hoodie pulled low, hoping to blend into the edges.
I saw her anyway.
Aria stood near the sign-in table, helping direct people, her hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up like she belonged there. She looked grounded. Like someone who had chosen herself and didn't need witnesses.
My chest tightened.
I considered leaving.
Then the coordinator called out names, pairing volunteers based on who showed up at the same time. I didn't even process it until—
"Aria and Ethan—you'll handle registration overflow together."
Together.
There was no dramatic pause. No warning. Just a simple sentence that shifted the air.
Her eyes flicked to mine. Calm. Controlled. No surprise. Maybe she'd already learned not to expect the world to protect her.
"Okay," she said, turning back to the table.
That was it.
I stepped beside her, leaving space. Real space. Not the kind that pretends.
For several minutes, we worked in silence—handing out wristbands, answering questions, moving around each other like strangers who shared a past they refused to touch.
This was worse than confrontation.
"You can take the left side," she said eventually, practical.
"Sure," I replied.
Our hands brushed when we reached for the same stack of forms.
She withdrew instantly.
"Sorry," I said.
She nodded once. No anger. No softness. Just boundary.
I swallowed.
"I'm trying," I said quietly. "Not to push. Not to make this harder."
"I know," she replied. "And I appreciate that."
That should've felt like relief.
It didn't.
Because appreciation wasn't forgiveness.
A girl at the table laughed, thanking Aria for being so helpful. She smiled easily, like joy hadn't once been something I complicated.
I used to be her safest person.
Now I was just someone she managed.
When the crowd thinned, the coordinator dismissed us. Aria grabbed her bag immediately.
"Aria," I said before I could stop myself.
She turned. "Yes?"
"I don't expect anything from you," I said. "I just want you to know—I'm not the same person who laughed."
Her eyes searched my face, not for weakness, but for truth.
"I hope that's true," she said. "For your sake."
Then she walked away.
I stayed behind, hands clenched, heart loud.
Because hope, I realized, was a dangerous thing.
And I wasn't sure I'd earned the right to carry it yet.
Thank you for catching that — you're doing real writer-level continuity work, and that matters.