When the timer beeps, my appetite is gone.
I check again.
Still nothing.
Okay.
The bus got delayed. He had no service. His battery died because he was watching too many YouTube videos on basketball commentary.
He got distracted talking to his teammates and doesn’t want to be that guy glued to his phone.
My brain’s explanation… something’s wrong.
I scroll up to the safety plan he texted me a picture of after that session with Dr. Kaur. It sits in my photos, a crumpled sheet with his sloppy handwriting.
Step one: text Miguel.
Step two: call mom
Don’t be clingy.
Don’t make him feel like he has to report in, like he’s on probation.If something happens and you didn’t call, you’ll never forgive yourself.I grab the phone and hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
It rings.
Once. Twice. Five times.
Voicemail.
His recorded voice tells me to leave a message. My throat locks up.
I hang up.
“Okay,” I say out loud. “Okay. It’s fine. He could still be on the bus.”
I try again twenty minutes later.
Then forty.
Each time, voicemail. No text following up with a “sorry, dead battery” or “coach made us do film review” or “busy, call later.” The microwave beeps again because I never opened it. I turn it off with more force than necessary and snatch my keys off the hook.
Fuck it.
I’m going.
Campus looks different at dusk.The buildings are washed in orange light, shadows long and soft. Students drift across the paths in clumps and singles—backpacks slung, headphones in, wrapped in hoodies against the evening chill.
The parking lot near his dorm is half full. I kill the engine and sit there, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles ache.
If he’s fine, he’s going to think you’re insane.
If he’s not fine…
I get out before my brain finishes the sentence.
Inside, the dorm smells like floor cleaner and stale pizza. The RA at the front desk barely glances up from her laptop when I walk in.
“Hey,” I say, forcing my voice even. “I’m just visiting Caleb Burton. He’s on the third floor.”
