“Sure,” he said to the doorframe.He walked out.The latch clicked shut.
I looked at the coffee pot.Full.Hot.Useless.
I opened my laptop and pulled up our text history.
Last Month Average Response Latency: 4 minutes.
Last Forty-Eight Hours Average Response Latency: 3 hours, 12 minutes.
Word Count Average (Sent): 15.
Word Count Average (Received): 4.
The data screamed.The trend line plummeted toward zero.
A familiar, cold sensation in my gut.It wasn’t heartbreak—heartbreak is a hot, sharp thing.This was old.This was the dull, heavy ache of recognition.
I knew this pattern.
I had lived in seven foster homes between the ages of six and sixteen.I considered myself an expert in the signs of “Placement Termination.”
It never happened all at once.The adults didn’t wake up one day and tell the caseworker to come get you.There was always a lead-up.A shift in the atmosphere.
I looked at Luke’s side of the room.Neat.Too neat.He hadn’t left his books on his desk.His gear bag was gone.His bed was made with military precision.
He was packing up his emotional investment.He hadn’t told me yet.
I dressed and fled the room.
Ridgeway Hall was my fortress of solitude, but today, the equations on my screen refused to resolve.I was staring at a complex manifold, but my brain was running a different simulation.
Simulation A: Luke stays.Probability: Low.The pressure from his father is a constant force.The fear of exposure is an escalating variable.
Simulation B: Luke leaves.Probability: High.The path of least resistance is to cut the tether.To be “singular.”
“You’re doing it again,” a voice said.
I looked up.Maya dropped her bag onto the table next to mine.She didn’t ask if the seat was taken.She sat down, unwound her scarf, and fixed me with a look that was equal parts pity and annoyance.
“Doing what?”I asked, closing my laptop.
“Calculating the end of the world.”She pointed at my face.“You have your ‘doomsday actuary’ expression on.”
