“What if my friends see you?” he added, like that was the real tragedy.

I laughed softly, trying to soften the moment. “Well, if it bothers you that much, just pretend you don’t know me.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t even hesitate.

He shook his head and walked out of the kitchen.

The next morning, I reported to work with a tightness in my chest I couldn’t quite name.

They assigned me to one of the main academic buildings—high ceilings, glass walls, constant foot traffic. Students streamed in and out between lectures, backpacks slung low, headphones on.

I kept my head down and did my job.

Mid-afternoon, I was wiping fingerprints from the glass doors near the entrance when I heard a burst of familiar laughter echo down the hall.

Logan.

I knew his footsteps before I saw him.

He rounded the corner with three of his friends. I braced myself to be invisible. Being ignored would’ve stung, but I was prepared for that.

What I wasn’t prepared for was this.

He looked straight at me. Our eyes met for half a second.

Then he turned to his friends and said loudly, “Ugh, the cleaning crew always leaves streaks on the glass. Don’t touch anything, guys. You never know what they drag in.”

He said it while looking directly at me.

Like I wasn’t his mother.

Like I was something he needed to distance himself from.

His friends laughed. One of them made a face and muttered something about “gross.”

My hands trembled so badly I nearly dropped the cloth.