The worst kind of silence is the kind that doesn't come from distance.
It's the kind that stretches between two people sitting right beside each other, in the same room, breathing the same air—saying nothing.
Talia Quinn knew this silence intimately now. It followed her through every hallway, shadowed her at every lecture, weighed heavy beside her in every seat Ezra didn't take.
But the worst part?
He was there.
Ezra showed up every day after that Monday. Sat in his usual spot. Answered questions in his soft-spoken way. Took notes with those same neat, careful hands. But not once—not once—did he try to talk to her again.
And Talia… Talia couldn't decide if she was grateful or devastated.
Maybe both.
A week passed.
Then two.
Their classmates didn't seem to notice anything had changed—Talia still threw sarcastic one-liners in group labs, and Ezra still offered answers no one asked for. But they never spoke directly. Not even a glance. Not even in passing.
The space between them had become a war zone.
She buried herself in late-night study marathons, cups of coffee that tasted like regret, and parties that felt like penance. She went out more, smiled less. Made out with a guy she didn't like just to prove to herself she could still feel something.
It didn't work.
Because every time she closed her eyes, she saw Ezra.
Ezra with his gentle voice and messy notes and annoyingly perfect eyebrows. Ezra with his quiet way of making her feel seen in a world that never asked her to be anything but tough.
She missed him.
Worse, she missed them.
But pride was a wall she didn't know how to climb back over.
The Thursday of their lab midterm, the universe—because it clearly had a twisted sense of humor—paired them together again.
Of course it did.
Talia stared at the lab bench, jaw tight. Ezra set his notes down next to her without a word.
"Guess we're back to being lab partners," she muttered, not looking up.
Ezra didn't answer at first. Then he said, "We were always better at the practicals than the theory."
His voice cracked slightly. Just enough for her to catch it.
"Right," she said, trying not to let the sound of him affect her. "Because chemistry's the only thing we're good at."
He winced. "That's not fair."
She met his eyes for the first time in two weeks. "Neither was ghosting me. Or coming back like nothing happened."
"I didn't know how to explain," he said. "My dad almost died. I panicked. I wasn't thinking straight—"
"You didn't text," she snapped. "You didn't try. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"
He opened his mouth, closed it again.
"I know I messed up," he said quietly. "But you didn't even give me a chance to fix it."
Talia crossed her arms, resisting the urge to fold. "You think fixing it is that simple? Like we can just press rewind and—what? Pretend none of it happened?"
"No," Ezra said. "I don't want to pretend. I want to be real about it. About us."
Something in her chest stuttered at the way he said us.
She hated that it still affected her. Hated that the memory of his hands, his voice, the way he looked at her—that it all still lived in her like a permanent scar.
The TA clapped for attention. "You've got sixty minutes to complete the cardiovascular examination module. Begin."
Just like that, the moment shattered.
They turned to their work, saying nothing more. Not about the kiss. Not about the pain. Not about the almost-love that still clung to the air between them like a heartbeat they were both too afraid to listen to.
The lab ended.
They passed.
But Talia didn't feel victorious. She felt… unfinished.
So she walked out, past the building, past the crowd, past the voice in her head telling her to let it go.
And Ezra followed.
"Talia—wait," he called.
She stopped. Didn't turn around.
"I know I can't fix it overnight," he said behind her. "And I don't expect you to forgive me. But I need you to know—what we had, what I felt—it wasn't fake. It wasn't some college phase. It was you. You matter to me. More than anything."
Silence.
She could lie. Tell him it didn't matter anymore. That she'd moved on. That she was fine.
But that would've been the easy way out.
So instead, she turned to face him, eyes tired, voice raw. "You broke my trust, Ezra. Not just once. And I'm not good at letting people in, you know that. I don't do fragile."
"I don't want fragile," he said. "I want real. Even if it's messy. Even if we fight. Even if we don't know what we're doing."
She stared at him for a long moment. The wind curled around them. Her heart beat too loud in her chest.
Then, quietly: "You're not the only one who made mistakes."
Ezra's eyebrows lifted slightly, uncertain.
"That night," she whispered. "The one after you disappeared. I did something stupid. I let someone kiss me. I was drunk. Hurt. I wasn't thinking."
His face shifted—shock, hurt, confusion. But he didn't say anything.
"I didn't sleep with him," she said quickly. "But… it still wasn't nothing. And I can't take it back."
Ezra nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "Thanks for telling me."
She swallowed. "So now you know everything."
A long pause.
Then, Ezra stepped forward. "We're both kind of disasters, huh?"
Talia let out a shaky breath. "Yeah. The worst."
He half-smiled. "Still think we're good at chemistry, though."
She rolled her eyes—but didn't walk away.
"I'm not saying we jump back in," she said. "But maybe… we talk. Really talk. No pretending. No ghosting. No disappearing."
His voice was softer now. "I can do that. I want to do that."
They stood there, not touching, but closer than they'd been in weeks.
Not fixed.
Not whole.
But maybe…
Almost healing.
And this time, that felt like enough to start again.