"Cody cared about you very much. The least I could do was make sure this situation didn't ruin your life, too."
Cared. Past tense.
Like Cody is already gone.
"I have to go," I say, not wanting to hear any of this right now. "I have class."
"Of course. Adela — if you need anything, please don't hesitate to call. You're not alone in this."
The line goes dead.
I stand there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear, trying to process the conversation.
He framed everything as protection. As care. As doing what's best for me.
But I never asked to be protected. Never asked to be moved off the board like a piece in a game I don't understand the rules to.
And that realization that I'm not in control of my own narrative anymore unsettles me more than anything else.
I text Beckett from the library, sitting in a corner booth with my laptop open but not actually working on anything.
Can you come over later?
The response comes within minutes.
Yeah. What time?
7?
I'll be there.
Simple. No questions. No hesitation.
I set my phone down and stare at the blank document on my screen, trying to focus on the essay I'm supposed to be writing for Political Theory. But the words won't come.
All I can think about is the way people looked at me in class. The whispers. The judgment.
The way my identity is splintering into something I don't recognize.
When Beckett arrives at seven, I'm sitting on my bed instead of at my desk.
No legal pad. No timeline. No research spread across every surface. This time, I won’t ask him silly questions he doesn’t know the answer to.
Just me, cross-legged on the mattress, wearing sweatpants and one of Cody's old hoodies that I should probably never wear again, but can’t seem to throw out.
Beckett notices the difference immediately. I see it in the way his eyes scan the room, taking in the closed laptop, the cleared desk, the absence of frantic investigation.
"Hey," he says, closing the door behind him.
"Hey." I pat the space beside me.
He hesitates for just a second, like he's calculating whether this is safe territory, and then lowers himself onto the bed next to me. Closer than we've sat before. Close enough that I can smell whatever soap he uses and see the bruises on his face.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then I ask the question I've been holding back since I met him.
"Why do you hate Cody?"
