Page 119 of What We Don't Say: Part One

“No,” she says, sitting across from me. “You didn’t.”

The words are too soft for the noise around us. I look at the soup until the steam makes my eyes sting, then pick up my spoon. For a few minutes, lunch is exactly what I wanted. Callie tells me about the building where her interview will happen and the woman on the committee who wears glasses on a chain. She tells me a student stopped her in the hall to ask whether blue books were real or just something professors made up to scare freshmen. I tell her Sloane tied my shoes like the laces had personally threatened his family, and her smile gets so wide she has to cover it with her napkin.

“He loves you,” she says, warm and sure.

“I know.” I dip a corner of grilled cheese into my soup, watching the bread soften at the edge. “He loves loudly.”

“He does.” She breaks another corner off and puts it on my plate. “Idris loves like he’s already checked the exits and packed three snacks.”

I glance toward her bag under the table. “Did he pack snacks?”

“He packed a protein bar and moved it to the front pocket because apparently I can’t be trusted with side pockets.”

“He’s right about that.” I say it carefully, ready to take it back if it lands wrong, but Callie gasps with fake outrage and nudges my shoe under the table.

It feels good. It feels normal enough that my body stops listening so hard for the heat beneath my skin. The café noise softens into a hum. Callie eats half her soup and almost none of the sandwich because she keeps pushing pieces toward me. When I tell her she needs to eat before the interview, her eyes go shiny in a way that makes me understand Idris’s worry better.

“I’m eating,” she says.

“You’re feeding me.”

“I can do both.” She takes a bite to prove it, chewing with exaggerated dignity until I smile again. “See? Very employable. Excellent soup management.”

I look at her across the table, beautiful and nervous and trying so hard to make this hour something I can keep. The words rise before Garrett’s voice can teach them caution.

“I missed you as soon as you left,” I say.

Callie’s expression changes. Her hand comes across the table, palm up, and I put my fingers in hers because she doesn’t grab. “I missed you too.”

“I know I have a few days.” I rub my thumb over her knuckle, following the shape of it. “I know the heat hasn’t started. I know everyone keeps saying we have time. But sometimes my body doesn’t believe time is real.”

“That makes sense to me.” She says it without pity, which helps more than almost anything else could. “My body keeps acting like the interview is already a goodbye, and I know that isn’t true either.”

“It isn’t,” I say immediately.

“I know.” She holds my fingers tighter. “I’m coming home after. Whatever happens in that room, I’m coming home.”

I believe her again. The belief settles in me, tender and necessary, and I'm still holding her hand when the café door opens with a jangle of the bell and a burst of louder voices. A group of students comes in all at once, laughing, shaking rain from umbrellas, backpacks swinging as they crowd toward the counter. One bumps the back of my chair hard enough to make it scrape against the tile.

Heat flashes under my skin. It isn't the full opening of a heat. I know that even through the sudden rush of panic. It is a spike, bright and fast, blooming from the base of my spine to the back of my throat until the café lights sharpen and the steam from my soup feels too hot on my face.

Callie’s thumb stills over my knuckles. “Star?”

“I’m here.” I make the words come out because I can, and because she needs them. “It got loud.”

“We can step outside.” She is already moving her bag with her foot, clearing the path without making it look like an evacuation. Her hand stays open around mine. “Slowly, okay?”

I nod and stand when she does. Someone turns too fast behind me. A backpack catches the edge of our table, and the tray jumps. My soup sloshes, the mug beside it tips, and the cup hits the tile before I understand it is falling. Ceramic breaks with a sound that goes straight through my bones.

I reach down. I shouldn't reach down, but the movement happens before thought. A bright line opens across my palm, and hot tea splashes my wrist. Callie says my name. My knees hit the tile a second later, not because I fall far, only because the room slips sideways and my body chooses the floor.

Callie is there immediately. She catches my wrist before my fingers can close around the cut, pressing a napkin over my palm with one hand while the other cups my cheek and turns my faceaway from the broken pieces. Her voice becomes calm in a way that isn't pretend. It is scared underneath, but she keeps the fear out of my hands.

“Eyes on me,” she says. “Theo, look at me. Color.”

“Yellow.” My voice shakes, but the word is clear. I swallow hard and try again because one word doesn't feel like enough. “Yellow because everything got loud. I’m scared, but I’m here.”

“Good. That’s good.” Her breath catches, then steadies. “Thank you for telling me. Keep looking at me.”