The weight of secrets

The week after that conversation with A.H. feels different. He told me he's falling for me. I told him the same. And now everything between us has this weight to it, this intensity that makes my chest tight every time my phone buzzes. But he still won't meet me. It's Wednesday morning, and I'm in the library working on my contest essay. The deadline is in ten days, and I'm nowhere near ready. My topic is solid the erasure and recovery of female voices in Victorian literature but every time I try to write, my mind wanders. To A.H. To his messages. To the way he said he's afraid of losing me before I even give him a chance. What does that mean? My phone sits on the table next to my laptop, screen dark. He hasn't messaged yet today, which is unusual. Normally I wake up to at least two or three texts from him. But this morning, nothing. I try not to let it bother me. He's probably just busy. He has a life outside of talking to me, even if I've started to forget that. "Emma Rivera,