Not my problem

By Monday, I had decided I was done thinking about Ethan.

Completely done.

Which was why I noticed immediately when he didn’t come to class.

I stared at the empty seat across the lecture hall for longer than I should have.

Nina noticed.

Naturally.

“He’s not here,” she whispered.

“I can see that.”

“You were looking.”

“I was looking around.”

“At his chair?”

I gave her a look.

She smiled and turned back to the lecturer.

I tried to do the same.

For the next hour, I forced myself to focus on the lecture, but every few minutes, my eyes drifted toward the door.

He never came.

Not my problem.

That was what I told myself when class ended.

Not my problem when I walked back to the apartment alone.

Not my problem when I passed his door and noticed there was no music playing.

And definitely not my problem when I got inside my apartment and checked my phone.

No messages.

I dropped my bag on the couch.

Ridiculous.

I had known this guy for less than a week.

I opened my laptop and tried to study.

Twenty minutes later, someone knocked on my door.

I looked up.

For some reason, my heart jumped.

Annoying.

I opened the door.

Ethan stood there.

He looked terrible.

His hair was messier than usual, his eyes looked tired, and he was wearing a hoodie even though the hallway was warm.

“You missed class,” I said.

He leaned against the wall.

“Nice to see you too.”

“You look sick.”

“I feel worse.”

I stepped back slightly.

“Why are you standing at my door then?”

“I need something.”

“Of course you do.”

He gave me a weak smile.

“Do you have painkillers?”

I stared at him.

“That’s why you came?”

“Yes.”

“You couldn’t go to the pharmacy?”

He pointed toward himself.

“Do I look like I want to go anywhere?”

Fair.

I went to the bathroom cabinet and returned with a packet.

“Take this after food.”

He looked at the packet.

“Do I look like I’ve eaten?”

I sighed.

“You’re impossible.”

“That’s becoming your favorite sentence.”

“Come inside.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Wow.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

He walked in and dropped onto the couch.

I went to the kitchen.

“I have soup.”

“Marry me.”

I looked over my shoulder.

“You’re sick and still irritating.”

“I’m consistent.”

I warmed the soup and placed it in front of him with water.

He looked at it, then at me.

“You made this?”

“Yes.”

“Should I be scared?”

“Eat it or leave.”

He took one spoonful.

Then another.

“This is good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m learning new things about you.”

“And I’m learning that you’re useless when you’re sick.”

He smiled.

For a few minutes, the apartment was quiet.

Then his phone buzzed.

He looked at it.

His expression changed.

Again.

I didn’t need to ask who it was.

Mia.

I hated that I knew.

He ignored the call.

It buzzed again.

“You can answer,” I said.

“I don’t want to.”

“That seems healthy.”

He looked at me.

“You always this judgmental?”

“Only when people bring their drama into my apartment.”

He laughed softly, then winced.

“Don’t make me laugh.”

“You came here by choice.”

He leaned back into the couch.

“Mia wants to get back together.”

There it was.

I looked at him.

“And?”

“And I don’t.”

“That seems simple.”

“It should be.”

“But?”

He was quiet for a moment.

“My family loves her.”

I frowned.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“A lot, apparently.”

I sat in the chair across from him.

He looked tired now, not just physically.

“There’s history,” he said. “Too much of it.”

I nodded slowly.

For once, I didn’t have a sarcastic answer.

He looked at me.

“You’re being quiet.”

“I’m listening.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Shut up.”

He smiled.

Then his eyes closed.

I thought he was joking at first.

But after a few seconds, his breathing slowed.

He had fallen asleep.

On my couch.

I stared at him.

This was ridiculous.

I should wake him up and send him back next door.

Instead, I pulled a blanket from the chair and placed it over him.

Then immediately regretted being nice.

I went back to my laptop.

Almost an hour later, I heard movement.

Ethan sat up slowly.

“What time is it?”

“Almost six.”

He rubbed his face.

“You let me sleep?”

“You looked half dead.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

He stood and picked up the empty bowl.

“I’ll wash this.”

“You’re sick.”

“And?”

“And go home.”

He looked at me for a second.

Then smiled.

“Thanks, Maya.”

Something about the way he said my name made my stomach feel strange.

I looked away.

“Take your medicine.”

“Yes, nurse.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Get out.”

He laughed and walked toward the door.

Before leaving, he turned.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“No wall knocking tonight.”

I smiled.

“Good.”

He paused.

“Unless I need something.”

I grabbed a pillow from the couch.

He closed the door before I could throw it.

I stood there smiling like an idiot.

Then my phone buzzed.

Nina: Study group tomorrow?

I typed back.

Me: Yes.

Then another message appeared.

Ethan: Soup was good.

I stared at the screen.

Me: Go to sleep.

Ethan: Bossy.

Me: Sick people should listen.

A pause.

Then:

Ethan: I like when you worry about me.

I stared at that message for far too long.

Then locked my phone.

Absolutely not.

Not my problem.

Except it was starting to feel like it was.