No message from Declan.
My stomach dropped so fast I felt stupid for being surprised by gravity.
There were other notifications. Harper had sent me a picture of a campus squirrel eating something that looked like a nacho.Vanessa’s name sat in my recent calls from two days ago, no new contact. Three team group chat messages. One email from my agent I refused to open on principle.
Nothing from him.
I locked the screen and put the phone face down on my thigh.
Okay.
That was okay.
It was barely noon. He had work. He had Olivia. He had a life currently being taken apart piece by piece, and I was not entitled to updates like a delivery tracker.
I changed. Packed. Lost my keys, found them in the pocket I’d already checked twice. Signed a stick for a kid waiting near the restricted area because his dad knew someone in equipment. Smiled in a way that felt almost normal. Made it to my car.
Then I sat there with the engine off, phone in the cup holder, and watched my breath fog the windshield.
Do not go to him.
Do not text him.
Do not become a problem he has to manage today.
I drove home with the radio off because every sound felt like a thumb pressing on a bruise.
At my apartment, I put my gear where it belonged for once, mostly because if I didn’t move I’d start pacing holes into the floor. I ate leftover pasta cold from the container because heating it required steps and steps were currently suspicious. Ianswered Harper with, That squirrel has seen war. She replied instantly, So have your eyebrows in every postgame interview.
I laughed.
It came out small, but it counted.
Then I put my phone on the kitchen counter and walked away from it.
Made it three minutes.
Came back.
Nothing.
I tried a nap and instead stared at the wall while replaying every possible version of last night. Olivia asking his name. Declan refusing. Olivia guessing anyway. Declan packing a bag. Declan not packing a bag. Declan deciding the cost was too high. Declan sitting alone because I wasn’t there and shouldn’t be.
At four-thirty, I gave up and cleaned the apartment badly.
At five-ten, I realized I’d put dish soap in the dishwasher by mistake and had to spend twenty minutes dealing with foam like I was being punished by a sitcom.
At six, Roman texted.
Roman: Alive?
Me: Unfortunately. Dishwasher tried to kill me.
Roman: User error.
Me: Betrayal.
Roman: Eat real food.
