He’s the last person I should want to talk to.
But he’s the only other person who understands that the world can tilt with a sound. The only one who lives in that constant readiness.
I open a new message.
The cursor blinks like a pulse.
How do you turn the noise off?
The text looks small, stupid, and far too honest.
I imagine him seeing my name on his screen.
Would he ignore it?
Delete it?
Would he stare the way he stared at me—calculating, invasive, certain?
Or would he answer?
The wanting hits like a bruise.
And I hate it.
I hate how much I want his answer.
I hate that I think he’d understand the door slam in a way no one else does. That the first person my mind reaches for whena sound rips me open isn’t my father, or Clara—it’s the live wire I’ve been warned away from.
My throat feels tight. My thumb trembles over the screen, a tiny, humiliating shake I can’t fully stop.
I delete the message, letter by letter, until the screen is empty again—blank, silent, and waiting.
My pulse doesn’t slow. The phantom of the words lingers in my chest like I sent them anyway. I lock the phone and set it face down on my thigh, fingers still curled like I’m holding on to something that isn’t there.
Wanting him is a liability.
But it’s the first thing in a long time that’s made me feel awake.
Chapter 9
Talia
Theapartmentsuddenlyfeelstoo small, the air too warm, the fairy lights too close.
I slip my shoes back on as quietly as I can and tug my hoodie over my head.
Clara murmurs something in her sleep and rolls over. I tuck a throw blanket around her, leave my mug in the sink, and scribble a quick note on a sticky pad from Genny’s fridge:Thanks for tonight. I’m okay. Just need my own bed. —T
The hallway outside Genny’s apartment is cooler, the lights dimmed to a sleepy yellow. Someone’s TV murmurs behind a closed door. No slams. No shouts. Just the soft hush of a building pretending to be peaceful.
I take the stairs down instead of the elevator. The concrete is cold under my soles; the metal rail is icy beneath my fingers. Each level down loosens something in my chest.
Outside, the night air hits like a clean blade. Cold and sharp and honest.
The parking lot behind Genny’s building is mostly empty, slicked in silver by the overhead lamps. My breath fogs in pale ribbons. I shove my hands into my hoodie pocket and start across the cracked asphalt toward the sidewalk that leads back to campus.
I’m halfway across when a truck doorthunksshut to my right.
