“How’s he doing?” Cameron asks. “Like…with everything. Rehab. All that.”
“He’s pushing,” I say. “He’s been—” I pause, thinking of Logan’s forced smiles, his eyes going distant when his phone buzzes. “He’s been quieter this week.”
Cameron’s brow furrows. “Quieter?”
“Yeah.” I poke at my food. “He’s been avoiding his phone a lot. Like…letting it ring. Turning it face down. Stuff like that.”
I don’t know why I say it.
Maybe because it’s been tugging at me like a loose thread.
Maybe because everything makes me hyperaware now.
Because once you’ve lost someone, you start scanning for the next loss without meaning to.
Cameron’s fork stops halfway to his mouth.
His eyes flick to mine.
“He’s probably just stressed,” Cameron says, too casually. “With, you know…only a week left.”
And for half a second, I see the exact moment he realizes he’s about to say the wrong thing.
But it’s too late.
My entire body goes cold.
“A week left?” I repeat, voice too flat.
Cameron’s jaw clenches.
“What did you mean?” I ask, slower now.
He looks away. Then back.
“Sloane—”
My heart is suddenly in my throat. “Cameron. What is he stressed about? A week left for what?”
Cameron’s face tightens like he’s chewing glass.
He exhales hard through his nose. “Shit.”
My hands go numb.
The student union keeps buzzing around us—laughter, chairs scraping, someone calling out an order number—but the sound feels far away, like I’ve been dropped underwater.
Cameron scrubs a hand over his mouth. “He didn’t tell you.”
It’s not a question.
It’s a statement.
My voice comes out too quiet. “Tell me what?”
Cameron’s gaze holds mine, heavy. Protective. Torn.
“I’m not supposed to—” he starts.
