My phone buzzes on my bed.
I glance at it.
Jade: movie + food later this week? you’re not allowed to say no.
I stare at it for a second, then type back:
sounds good.
Then I toss the phone like it offended me.
The house is quiet.
Too quiet.
I listen, automatically cataloging sounds the way I always do now.
TV low in the living room. Pops’s cough earlier. Cameron’s footsteps fading. Logan’s…nothing.
Which is worse.
Because Logan quiet is Logan thinking, and Logan thinking is Logan making decisions that scare me.
I move to the window and peer through the blinds like I’m looking for a threat, but the street is empty. The winter sky is darkening. The porch light flicks on automatically.
Everything looks normal.
That’s the cruelest part.
Normal outside. Not normal inside.
I turn away, and my eyes land on the corner of my room—on the edge of my laundry basket, on the stack of books I haven’t had the brain space to open, on my planner sitting open like it’s still in charge.
I could do what I always do.
I could take out my laptop and search until my eyes blur. I could make lists. I could reorder Pops’s medications by color and time of day. I could build a wall of productivity and hide behind it.
But I can still feel Logan’s mouth almost touching mine.
And that is not something a spreadsheet can fix.
I drag in a breath and force my shoulders down.
Okay.
Okay.
What do I do now?
I’m thirsty. My throat feels like sandpaper, like my body’s reminding me I exist.
The idea of walking into the hallway and possibly seeing Logan makes my stomach flip.
Annoyingly.
Stupidly.
Like I’m seventeen again, and he’s in our kitchen in a PCU hoodie that doesn’t belong in my house, and my brain is short-circuiting because I want something I’m not supposed to want.
