My phone vibrates once in my pocket, and my whole body goes rigid.
My brain is a traitor.
It’s wired now to expect bad news every time a screen lights up.
But when I pull it out, it’s just a text.
Logan: you still walking?
Logan: stay on maple, not the main road. people drive like idiots.
A laugh tries to happen and turns into something softer.
Not happy.
Not even close.
But…warmed.
Like he’s out there somewhere, keeping an eye on me even when he’s not physically standing beside me, and I hate how much I need that.
I type back with cold fingers.
i’m on maple. i’m fine.
The lie sits there on the screen like a bad habit.
Almost immediately, he replies.
Logan: i know.
I blink hard and shove the phone back into my pocket before the heat behind my eyes can turn into something larger than I can control out here.
Because I don’t cry out here.
That’s the rule.
The road curves a little, leading toward a small strip of houses with tidy yards and low fences. Somewhere down the block someone’s sprinklers are going, misting the air with that sharp green smell of watered grass.
It makes me think of Pops again.
Of him standing in the driveway in a faded CSU sweatshirt, telling Cameron his footwork was trash while he rebounded shots for me and yelled at me to keep my elbow in.
My chest aches.
I press my palm flat to my sternum like I can physically hold myself together.
I keep walking.
My eating has come back in the same way—controlled, forced, scheduled.
Not because I want food.
I don’t.
Most of the time, my stomach still feels like a knot. Like grief lives there now, heavy and sour.
But I eat because Logan watches me.
