Chapter 49 Quiet war— Jealousy backfires on Mia
Chapter 49 Quiet war— Jealousy backfires on Mia
Mia noticed it the moment Michael stepped onto campus, a faint mark at the base of his neck, barely there, more shadow than bruise. She stared at it like it was a gun pointed at her chest.
His eyes were tired. His steps uneven. Like he hadn’t slept.
She tried to sound casual.
Tried to be soft.
Tried to be the girl who didn’t shove jealousy down people’s throats.
“Hey,” she said, smiling too brightly. “About yesterday… I’ve been thinking. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. I’m sorry.”
Michael blinked at her. Once. Twice. His voice came out flat.
“It’s fine.”
But she didn’t step away. She leaned closer, pretending she was checking something on his shirt.
“That’s a weird bruise,” she murmured. “Did you bump into something? Or…”
Her voice dipped.
“Someone?”
Michael’s jaw tightened.
“Mia.”
“What?” She kept her tone light. “I’m just asking.”
He adjusted his backpack, creating space between them.
“I don’t know what it is. Drop it.”
That stung more than she expected.
She watched him walk away, the mark now looking less like coincidence and more like evidence. Her stomach twisted.
Evidence of what?
She didn’t know.
She didn’t like how easily she could imagine the answer.
Daphne.
The thought felt like swallowing glass.
\~~~
Michael spent the rest of the day acting like someone was chasing him. He wasn’t running, just restless. Distracted. Quick to rub the back of his neck like he knew exactly what Mia had seen.
He didn’t want to think about Daphne.
He didn’t want to think about last night.
He didn’t want to think about the way she’d said I love you without actually asking for anything in return.
But everything he did circled back to her anyway.
He cleaned his room twice.
Organized shoes he never wore.
Alphabetized his textbooks.
Nothing helped.
He even reheated leftover pasta and then forgot to eat it.
By evening, he gave up and sat on the couch with his head in his hands.
A soft knock made him sit up straight.
His pulse jumped.
His palms went warm.
He opened the door.
Daphne stood there like she’d been painted into place. Hair loose. Eyes sharper than last night. Calm to the point of being unsettling.
Michael felt his chest tighten.
“Hi,” he said, voice embarrassingly hoarse.
Daphne lifted a brow.
“You look like you’re about to bolt.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” she said, stepping inside without waiting. “Relax. I’m not here to confess.”
She took in the living room.
Everything spotless. Too tidy. Too staged.
Her gaze returned to him.
“I’m here because you kept dancing in my head,” she said simply.
Michael froze.
He didn’t know what to do with that.
Didn’t know how to react.
Didn’t know where to put his hands.
“So,” she said, dropping her bag on his couch like she owned the air, “sit.”
He hesitated.
She gave him a look.
He sat.
\~~~
They didn’t talk about last night.
Daphne didn’t tease him.
Michael didn’t ask for clarity.
Instead, the conversation drifted into something deeper, slower and real in a way that made his chest ache.
She told him about her dad.
“He didn’t go quickly,” she said. “Cancer took its time with him.”
Michael listened without interrupting. His fingers twisted together, useless, anxious.
Daphne kept her tone steady, but something underneath it cracked.
“He tried to hide it at first," she added. "Like I wouldn’t notice him losing weight. Though I didn't know until I was old enough to understand.”
Michael said quietly, “You were how old?”
“seven when he started getting worse.”
Her eyes lowered.
He swallowed hard.
“And your mom?”
“She left when I was six.”
Daphne shrugged one shoulder.
“She didn’t even come back for the funeral.”
Silence settled. Heavy enough to feel like a third presence in the room.
Michael leaned forward before he realized it.
“You take care of everyone,” he said. “Who took care of you?”
The question hung between them.
Daphne didn’t blink.
It wasn’t pity in his voice.
It wasn’t charity.
It was something that saw her in ways she wasn’t used to.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m allowed to break.”
Michael’s breath caught.
She didn’t move away.
She didn’t pretend she wasn’t shaking a little.
Instead, she said, “I didn’t come here for sympathy. I just… didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
His throat tightened.
Because he understood.
“Okay,” he said softly. “You don’t have to be.”
\~~~
The evening stretched.
They talked until the sky outside turned violet.
About stupid things.
About heavy things.
About things neither of them had said out loud before.
Every time she brushed his arm, he forgot how to think.
Every time he looked at her, she didn’t look away.
And when she finally stood to leave, something inside him sank.
At the door, she paused.
“You’re still tense,” she said.
“That obvious?”
“Painfully.”
She touched his chest lightly.
His breath hitched.
Her hand stayed there. Warm. Real.
“Goodnight, Michael.”
He didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
He watched her walk down the hallway, coat swinging behind her.
Her silhouette fading toward the stairwell, each step echoing in the quiet building.
He didn’t close his door until she disappeared from sight.
\~~~
Mia arrived just at the wrong time.
She turned the corner and saw Daphne stepping out of the building.
Alone.
Composed.
Looking like she belonged there.
Mia’s stomach flipped violently.
No. No no no.
She hid behind a parked car, breath shaky, watching Daphne walk down the street.
Her heart hammered so hard she felt sick.
Why her?
Why always her?
Mia waited until Daphne was gone before climbing the steps to Michael’s door. She raised her hand to knock but hesitated.
Inside, she heard movement.
A soft noise.
Like someone still awake.
She lowered her hand.
She wasn’t ready to know.
\~~~
The next morning, she cornered him at campus again.
“So,” she said lightly, “busy night?”
Michael frowned.
“What do you mean?”
She tilted her head, trying to keep her voice steady.
“I might’ve seen someone leaving your building.”
His eyes hardened.
“Mia. Stop.”
“I’m not accusing…”
“You are.”
The sharpness in his tone sliced the air.
She froze.
He’d never spoken to her like that.
Michael stepped back, shoulders tense.
“Stop acting like you know my life,” he said. “You don’t.”
The words hit her like a slap.
Mia went silent.
Her throat closed.
Her eyes burned.
He didn’t look back as he walked away.
She stood still for a long time, breath shallow.
Her hands trembled before she managed to whisper, barely audible, almost like a curse meant for herself:
“She’s doing this on purpose.”