A flicker of unease curls in my stomach as I step inside. My gaze sweeps the room, landing on the bed—and my breath catches.
Mason.
He’s lying there, sprawled across my covers, his limbs at awkward angles. His hair is a mess, his shirt wrinkled, and I can smell the faint tang of alcohol even from the doorway. My shoulders tense.
He’s drunk. Again.
I walk over, my movements careful, my heart pounding for reasons I can’t quite name. “Mason,” I sigh, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “What are you doing in here?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Mason?” I repeat, a little louder this time. I shake his shoulder, but he still doesn’t move.
That’s when I notice that he isn’t breathing.
His chest isn’t rising. His lips are parted, but there’s no sound, no movement. His eyes—god, his eyes—are open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Lifeless.
“No,” I whisper, the word barely audible. My gaze drops to the floor, and that’s when I see it.
A tub of pills, the cap off, a few scattered across the carpet. His phone lies next to it, the screen cracked, a missed call flashing across it like some cruel joke.
No. No, no, no.
I feel the scream before I hear it, a raw, animal thing tearing its way out of me. “Mason?”
My knees hit the floor, hard, but I don’t feel it. “Mason!” I’m shaking him now, shaking him harder than I should, but he doesn’t respond. “Wake up!” My voice cracks, splinters, breaks. “Please.” The world blurs through the flood of tears. I can’t see his face clearly anymore, but I don’t let go.
My screams turn into choking gasps, and my whole body trembles with the force of it. The room is spinning. My vision blurs, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. My hands are trembling so violently I can’t even press them to his chest. His face is pale, too pale, and his hand is cold when I touch it.
“Mason,” I whisper this time, my voice shattering into silence.
But he doesn’t answer.
And I scream, and scream, and scream until there’s nothing left. Nothing but the heaving of my chest, the ache in my lungs, and a cruel, sharp thought:It was his birthday, too.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The journey to Maths was painful.
As expected.
Will walked too fast, and I could hardly walk at all. Not a great combination. He didn’t even notice at first, just kept moving with zero interest in waiting for the slow and wounded.
To be fair, he did take my backpack—eventually. But I’m convinced he only did it so I’d stop lagging behind and making him have to stop about a million times.
Will has about as much empathy as a brick, maybe less.
By the time we make it to class, I am already exhausted, but at least the teacher doesn’t ask about my face. Or the despicable way I’m currently sitting. For that, I’m grateful.
At my seat, though, Kym keeps side-glancing at me. Not saying anything, just looking. She’s wearing a dark green turtleneck today, the fabric snug around her throat, and the same black beret she always wears, slightly tilted like she always places it.
I force a small smile and pull out my notebook and pens.
It’s silent between us for a while. Not awkward, not comfortable. Just there. Then, after a moment, Kym finally speaks.
“Are you okay?”
I take a second before turning to her, mustering up the widest, most convincing smile I can manage.
