“And which night is that?” I ask. I didn’t, after all, tell them the date.

Molly tries her door again, and, getting another red, hits her card against the sensor in frustration. “All of them. I’m really busy these days, okay?”

“I’ve noticed,” I say wryly, and finally, she manages to unlock her door. “Molly, wait.”

Her shoulders stiffen, and she stops, facing into her bedroom, holding the door ajar. “Rose, I don’t want to do this.”

“Well, I do.”

“And as difficult as it might be for you to believe, the world doesn’t revolve around how you feel.”

She doesn’t close the door, though. I grasp at her hesitation as though it’s a life raft. “Just tell me what I did,” I whisper in a rush. “If it was … that night, I would understand, but you weren’t upset with me then. This is newer. I’ve clearly done something, and I want to make it right, but I can’t, because I don’t know what I’m apologizing for. I’ve been trying to give you space—”

“Oh, yeah, I’m really appreciating the amount of space I have right now,” Molly snaps. I take a step back, though it’s clearly not quite what she means.

“I gave you space,” I say. “But it seems to me as though you’ve decided our friendship is over. You can’t just end a ten-year friendship without at least telling me why, Molly. You owe me that much.”

“Actually, I don’t owe you anything.” Molly turns back and gives me an icy look, one that makes me regret confronting her at all. I thought nothing could be worse than the growing distance, but this? The contempt she’s surveying me with right now? This is undoubtedly worse.

“Please?” I ask.

She stands perfectly still, and I’m struck with the distinct impression that she’s preparing to run or react. Is she afraid of me? Or should I be afraid of her right now?

“Come in,” she says finally, and I follow her inside, where she closes the door so we can converse in private. It’s the first time we’ve been alone together—truly alone—in months. It used to be an almost daily event.

When she turns to face me, the contempt is gone, replaced by a steely resolution. “Look,” she says. “I haven’t told you what you did, because there’s nothing you did, exactly. It’s you.”

“Me?” I repeat. Until recently, she seemed to be an avid fan of me, just as I am. Nothing’s changed about me—at least, nothing of significance I can pinpoint. So why on earth has she suddenly decided that who I am is a problem? Something worth unceremoniously disposing of?