Not just tired wrong—too heavy, like they’ve been swapped out for lead while I slept. The light coming through my blinds is the pale, overexposed kind, striping the floor in harsh bands that make my eyes ache.
It’s been a week.
Seven days since the parking lot. Since the fight. Since I told him to pick a lane and he told me he was a loaded gun.
Seven days of radio silence.
I flex my fingers. My wrist twinges—a dull, mean ache where the drunk guy’s fingers wrapped around bone.
Then the reel starts. The one my mind’s been playing on loop for a week, scenes spliced together wrong.
Declan’s mouth under mine in the players’ box last Tuesday. Cold metal under my thighs, the chill of the rink at my back.
Then the ballroom on Thursday. The hand on his jaw. Her lips on his mouth. Flashbulbs exploding. The way he didn’t move.
Then Saturday night. The fight on the path.
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“No. You’re trying to keep me safe.”
My phone sits on my desk, silent. We haven’t texted. I haven’t sent the wordIn. He hasn’t asked.
I told him I wouldn’t be his secret. I told him to stop lurking in the dark.
So he stopped.
The silence should feel like a victory. It feels like a vacuum.
I drag myself out of bed. Muscles protest, tight and ropey. I pull on leggings, a soft sweater, thick socks. Armor made of cotton.
By the time I make it down to the lounge, the day’s already in full swing. I claim a spot in the corner by the window, drop my backpack, and open a textbook I have no intention of reading.
“Talia.”
Clara’s voice pulls my gaze up. She’s already halfway across the room, curls bouncing. Zoë’s behind her, carrying a ridiculous iced coffee. Maya and Genny trail them.
They don’t ask if they can sit. They just… do.
“You look like hell,” Zoë says cheerfully, dropping into the armchair.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “Love you too.”
“She means you look like you haven’t slept since the gala,” Clara says gently, wedging herself next to me. “Which… fair.”
My stomach drops. The gala.
I can see it again, too clearly: The silver dress. The hand on his jaw.
“I’m fine,” I say. The lie tastes thin.
Maya’s gaze flicks up, sharp behind her lashes. “You haven’t been at the rink. You haven’t been at the library. You’re ghosting.”
“I’m studying,” I say.
“You’re hiding,” Genny corrects softly.
Zoë rolls her eyes. “Look, we all saw it. Barbie Lip Gloss staked her claim. It sucked. But Adrian says Reid has been… different this week.”
