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I see them before they see me, the familiar rhythm of their stride as they exit Martinez's Econ class. Byron, shorter but broader, his backpack slung casually over one shoulder. Cade, tall and ramrod straight, always looking like he has somewhere important to be. The way they move together speaks of years of friendship — an easy, unspoken synchronicity that I used to admire from the outside.

I reach for something inside my bag, pretending as if I hadn't spotted them yet. Then I feel their eyes catch on me, and something inside me turns to stone.

Without a word, they swerve — a perfectly coordinated adjustment of their trajectory that takes them wide around me, as if I'm surrounded by some invisible barrier. Neither looks at me directly. Neither acknowledges my existence. They just navigate around the obstacle that is me.

My breath catches in my throat, my fingers freezing on the sociology textbook I've been retrieving from my locker. Time slows, each second stretching painfully as they pass. The hallway fills with white noise, the chatter of other students fading beneath the roaring in my ears.

They're friends again? After everything — after the betrayal, the confrontation, the horrible words Byron hurled at both of us — they've simply reconciled. As if none of it mattered.

As if I didn't matter.

I've become a blip, a temporary disruption in their brotherhood that's now been smoothed over. Forgotten.

The textbook slips from my numb fingers, landing with a thud that no one but me seems to notice. I feel hollowed out, carved empty by the indifference in their careful avoidance. I knew they'd be angry. Expected disgust, judgment, even hatred. But this? This deliberate erasure? It cuts deeper than any shouted accusation ever could.

My phone is in my hand before I register pulling it from my pocket, fingers flying across the screen in a message to the only people I can trust right now.

Saylor: Just watched Byron and Cade walk past me in perfect unison. Neither looked at me. They're friends again??? What the actual fuck?

The response comes almost immediately, my phone vibrating with incoming messages.

Mina: Wait, WHAT? After everything??

Chloe: No way. Are you sure? Maybe they just didn't see you.

Saylor: They saw me. They literally changed direction to avoid me.

Mina: That's some bullshit. Bros before hos I guess

Saylor: Suddenly my existence doesn't matter. I'm just the ho who came between them for about 5 minutes

Chloe: This is why men are trash. Want to hit the pickleball courts again after class? Good way to work out frustration

Saylor: I need something more violent and destructive, but pickleball will have to do

Mina: Can't join today. Got a study group. But kick some ass for me

Chloe: Meet you at 4? I'll bring extra balls. You can smash them into oblivion

Saylor: It's a date

I slide my phone back into my pocket, trying to ignore the acidic burn of humiliation in my chest. The hallway continues to bustle around me, students rushing to their next classes, laughing, complaining, existing — all of them unaware of the small apocalypse happening inside me.

I gather my fallen textbook, clutching it to my chest like armor. I have fifteen minutes to get to Developmental Psychology, fifteen minutes to pull myself together and pretend I'm not completely unraveling.

The walk across campus feels surreal, autumn sunlight casting everything in a golden glow that feels mockingly cheerful. How dare the world look so beautiful when I feel so terrible? I pass the student center, avoiding looking toward the coffee shop where Byron and I used to meet between classes. Avoid glancing at the oak tree where we would all hang out.

Memory landmines everywhere, waiting to detonate with each careless step.

By the time I reach Dev Psych, I've composed myself enough to slide into my usual seat near the back without drawing attention. I pull out my notebook, flip to a fresh page, and write the date at the top with mechanical precision.

For the next seventy-five minutes, I take meticulous notes on attachment theory and childhood trauma, letting the familiar rhythm of lecture and note-taking numb me into something resembling normalcy. The irony isn't lost on me when Professor Williams talks about avoidant attachment styles and fear of intimacy. I almost laugh out loud — a reaction that would definitely get me some strange looks from the classmates around me.

When class ends, I have two hours before meeting Chloe. Two hours to fill with something other than obsessing over the hallway incident. I head to the library, find a quiet corner, and attempt to lose myself in statistics homework again. The problems are complex enough to demand my full attention, a welcome distraction from the replay of Byron and Cade's synchronized avoidance maneuver that keeps looping through my mind.

At a quarter to four, I pack up my barely touched homework and head for the courts. Chloe is already there when I arrive, a canvas bag bulging with pickleballs beside her on the bench.

"Special delivery," she announces, patting the bag. "I borrowed these from the rec center. Told them we're practicing for intramurals."

"Are we?" I ask, dropping my backpack next to hers.

"We could be," she shrugs. "But mostly I thought you might enjoy smashing the hell out of something without legal consequences."

For the first time since the hallway incident, I feel a genuine smile tug at my lips. "You know me too well."

"That's what best friends are for." She tosses me a paddle. "Now, let me see your angry face."

I contort my features into an exaggerated scowl that makes her laugh.

"Perfect. Channel that energy into destroying these innocent balls."

We move to opposite sides of the court, and Chloe starts feeding me balls one by one. I swing with increasing force, sending them flying across the court, some sailing way beyond the boundaries. Each hit vibrates up my arm, a satisfying physical sensation that grounds me in my body instead of my swirling thoughts.

"So," Chloe says casually, tossing another ball my way, "want to talk about it?"

I whack the ball with particular force, sending it arcing high over the fence. "Not much to say. They've decided I'm not worth anything."

"Their loss," she says firmly.

"Is it though?" I hit another ball, this one just barely catching the edge of the court. "Maybe they're right. Maybe I am exactly what Byron said. A fake, a phony, playing games with people."

"That's bullshit and you know it." Chloe's tone makes me look up. Her expression is protective. "You made a mistake. That doesn't define who you are. And Cade––"

"Doesn't it?" I miss the next ball entirely, my frustration throwing off my timing. "I slept with my ex's best friend two days after we broke up. Then I lied about things I'd said about him. What kind of person does that make me?"

"Human," she answers simply. "A messy, complicated human who sometimes screws up."

I shake my head, not ready to accept her absolution. "You should have seen them, Chloe. The way they just…moved around me. Like I was nothing. Like what happened meant nothing."

"Men compartmentalize," she explains, retrieving a ball that rolled to the fence. "They can separate you sleeping with Cade from their friendship. It's annoying but also how they survive emotionally."

"While I'm over here feeling like my insides have been put through a blender," I mutter.

"Because you process things differently. Neither way is wrong, just different." She tosses me another ball, which I smack with renewed vigor. "Besides, did you actually want either of them to acknowledge you? What would you have said?"

The question catches me off guard. What would I have wanted? Byron to yell at me again? Cade to look at me with that cold indifference from the car? Neither option seems particularly appealing.

"I don't know," I admit. "I just… I guess I wanted to matter. To have some impact. Their friendship surviving intact makes me feel like I was just… insignificant."

"Or maybe," Chloe suggests gently, "you're making this all about you when it's really about them. Their friendship has history and roots you'll never understand. Just like they'll never understand why you did what you did."

Her words hit me harder than I expected, forcing me to consider a perspective outside my own hurt feelings. Maybe this isn't about me being insignificant. Maybe it's about something between them that has nothing to do with me at all.

"When did you get so wise?" I ask, catching a ball instead of hitting it.

She grins. "Dev Psych is my jam. Now, are you going to keep torturing that ball, or are we going to play for real?"

"Let's play," I decide, tossing the ball back to her. "I'm tired of being in my head all day."

As we rally back and forth, the tight knot of anger and humiliation in my chest gradually loosens. It doesn't disappear — I know myself well enough to recognize that I'll be processing this for days, maybe weeks. But the sharp edges of the pain begin to dull, worn smooth by physical exertion and Chloe's unwavering support.

By the time we finish, the sun is setting over the campus, casting long shadows across the courts. We gather the scattered balls, some of which I sent halfway to the nearby softball field in my enthusiasm.

"Same time tomorrow?" Chloe asks as we shoulder our bags.

I consider the prospect of another day facing the possibility of running into Byron or Cade — or worse, both of them together.

"Definitely," I nod. "I have a feeling I'm going to need a lot more ball-smashing therapy in the near future."

We head back toward our apartment, the evening air cool against my sweat-dampened skin. With each step, I feel a little more solid, a little more myself. The world didn't end when they walked past me. It didn't end when Byron discovered the truth. It won't end tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that.

But I'm still bothered by what happened.

Especially because of Cade.