“Love you too,” I whisper.
The line clicks dead.
I stare at my reflection in the black of the TV for a long moment, Dad’s words looping.Live wire. Not dangerous to you. Be smart.
A shiver runs down my spine.
Maya’s right—the truth will come out.
And when it does, it’s going to hit every fault line at once.
I spend the rest of Friday night holed up in my dorm, pretending the silence is a choice. But it isn't, not really. It’s the residue of everything he left in me. Hiding is what he taught me. Hiding is his language, not mine. Skipping the game feels like I handed him another piece of my life and saidhere, take this too.
Saturday lands with the weight of a decision.
So I put on my softest sweatshirt, the one that still smells faintly like detergent from home, tug my hood up, and walk out the door anyway. Every step down the hall feels like an argument I’m having with my own body.
We’re going. We are not giving him this too.
I’m not testing noise tonight. I’m not testing crowds.
Tonight is about proving something smaller, quieter: that I can sit in a room with my friends and not flinch every time the world remembers it can slam.
That I can exist in softness without bracing for impact.
The first real laugh I’ve had in a week is stolen by Clara cheating at Cards Against Humanity.
“It’s not cheating,” she insists, her face a mask of pure innocence as she tucks a white card back into her lap. “It’s strategic recycling.”
“It’s cheating,” Zoë says, throwing a piece of popcorn at her. “You’re a disgrace to this family, Hale’s Girl.”
Genny just smirks from her throne of pillows, phone held up to film the argument. “This is why I don’t play. I prefer to document the moral decay.”
We’re in Genny’s apartment, a space so clean and minimalist it’s almost sterile. Half-empty snack bags litter the expensive rug. Fairy lights are strung across concrete-grey walls, casting a soft, warm glow that feels like a shield against the world. A low indie-pop playlist hums from a speaker.
The couch is too soft, swallowing me whole, but the weight of it against my back is… grounding. There are no hidden locks here, no deadbolts disguised as safety. Just throw blankets and ridiculous, overpriced candles that smell like “rainy bookstores” and “cinnamon libraries.”
It’s cozy, achingly normal, and it all feels like a costume I’m wearing.
I force myself to be here, to not make an excuse. This is how it starts.
This isn’t the cafeteria. This isn’t the arena.
This is the smallest battlefield yet—being present. Not ghosting my own life.
The thought is a small, hard stone in my gut. I roll it around, let the anger scrape against the fear. Anger wins by a hair.
“You’re lucky we even let you in,” Clara says, pointing a finger at me. I’m curled in the corner of the sofa, feet tucked under me, the mug warm against my palms. “You keep skipping out on us. You’re allergic to fun.”
“Or allergic to hockey players,” Zoë adds, waggling her eyebrows.
Genny snorts. “Maybe she just has taste.”
“Or maybe she’s just smart,” Maya murmurs from the floor, not looking up from her phone. “Statistically, they’re a bad investment.”
“I’m not allergic to fun,” I say, my voice a little rough from underuse, ignoring Maya’s comment. I force a lightness I don't feel. “Some of us actually came to college to study, you know. A foreign concept to you heathens.”
Zoë throws popcorn at me this time. I flinch on instinct, then force myself not to duck, letting the kernel bounce off my sweatshirt and fall harmlessly into my lap. My shoulders want to climb to my ears; I make them stay down.
