Amira leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “Is thathishoodie?”
I tugged at the sleeves, trying to cover the cuffs. “Maybe.”
“Bitch, that hoodie is practically trauma-bonded to you.”
That’s when I laugh. The first one in days. It sounds rusty and a little hollow. “I like this hoodie.”
“You hate that hoodie.”
I don’t argue. She’s right.
“Tru,” she said, voice dipping into that older-sister tone that usually meant she was about to psychoanalyze me.
“It was cold,” I muttered.
She snorted. “It’s seventy-five degrees there.”
I tried for a smile. “Then I was nostalgic.”
Her expression softened, the teasing fading from her voice. “You’ve gotta stop doing this to yourself, babe. You’re not a rehab center for people who forget how to care.”
I looked out the window at the leaves skittering across the quad. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Sometimes.”
She sighed but didn’t push. That was the thing about Amira, she always knew when to stop pressing and just stay.
The silence stretched between us, comfortable in its own way, the kind that felt like being seen instead of interrogated.
Finally, she said, “You still going to that art mixer tonight?”
“Maybe.”
“Go. Meet new people. Talk to someone who doesn’t make you feel like you’re a backup plan.”
I smiled faintly. “You always this gentle, or am I just lucky?”
She grinned. “Oh, I’m roasting you in my head, don’t worry. You eating?” she asked, craning to see my tray.
“I was thinking about it.”
“That’s not eating. That’s depression plate staging. You’re surviving. Badly.”
“Thanks. It’s weird without you here.”
“I know,” she said softly. “It’s weird without you, too. Thisplace is fine, but no one knows me like you do. No one else would dare let me FaceTime looking like this.”
“You look amazing,” I lied.
Amira smirked. “You’re terrible at that.” She leaned in closer and dropped her voice even lower, like she was telling me a secret. “Stop living in Dare’s gravitational field like your orbit doesn’t matter.”
I looked out the window at the soccer field in the distance. He wasn’t out there today. Maybe that was worse.
“What if I forget how to want something else?”
“You won’t,” she said. “You’ll remember. As soon as you let yourself want somethingbetter.”
