Sitting across from me.
Not dancing.
Not drinking.
Not talking.
Juststaringat his damn phone with an intensity that should've set the screen on fire by now.
The guy looks like he's trying to mentally force a message to appear.
Honestly, if he stares any harder, he'll poke a hole straight through the glass.
He's been like this all. Freaking. Day.
Ever since he flew back from Duluth this morning.
We all came home yesterday—except him. Some"personal thing,"is what he mumbled before leaving.
And when he walked into practice today? He looked... wrecked.
Not hungover wrecked. Not tired wrecked.
Emptied.
Like someone scooped out everything inside him and forgot to put it back.
All day, he kept checking his phone. Over and over. Face falling each time nothing showed up.
And a few times?
I caught him staring atme. Like he wanted to say something. Ask something. But then he'd close off again and walk away.
Usually, I'd go to him.
He's my best friend.
Was, my brain corrects bitterly.
But we haven't talked for a few weeks
And I don't plan to be the first to break.
If Elijah wants to pretend he feels nothing for Sam—fine.
But he's not getting another ounce of effort from me until he pulls his head out of his ass.
Still... Watching him now — jaw tight, shoulders tense, thumb hovering like he's waiting for a life-or-death message — a small, stupid, traitorous part of me wants to ask.
What's going on with you?
Are you okay?
But I don't. I lean back, take a long sip of my drink, and just watch him.
If he's not coming clean, I'm not digging.
So I sit here.
