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I sling my pillow at him, but he catches it and chuckles. “Are you crushing on me, Harlow?”

“In your dreams. Seriously, what did you tell her?”

“That I’m your friend and that I’m here to take you to school. She seemed happy enough with that alone, and she let me in.”

“Is she still here?”

“Nope.” He sits on the edge of the bed and gives methe look. The same look my mother gives when she’s trying to see past my walls to the truth, because to the ones who know that I tried to end my life, there’s always a degree of skepticism. “You aren’t sick, are you?”

I cock my head and narrow my eyes.

“What?” His voice pitches in defense. “I’m just saying. You don’t look that sick.”

I shake my head and then tense when he covers my hand with his. Oh, God. I can see it in his eyes; he’s about to say something sentimental and serious. On the inside, I’m already cringing.

“You know you can always talk to me, right?”

I roll my eyes, and when I toss the sheets aside, he pulls his hand back.

“I’m serious, Low. You haven’t been at school for days, and you’ve been ignoring all of my texts.”

“So?”

“So, I’ve been worried.”

The word I hate. Just what I need, another person in my life who’s worried about me. I try to shrug it off, but it sticks like glue.

It was a month ago when Noah saw the scar on my wrist. Noah’s a smart guy, and with my reluctance to address it, he knew exactly what had happened without my having to spell it out for him.

Yeah, I’m the nutcase who tried killing myself. How do you even begin to explain that situation to someone you’ve just met?

You can’t.

But now there’s this weird, unspoken thing between us.

“Well, you have no reason to worry.”

“So, you’re coming to school then?”

I rock my head back, dreading having to go.

“Come on,” he nags. “It’s the last day. There is no way I’m going alone.”

It isn’t just the idea of going that has me in a silent panic. It’s everything leading up to it. It’s having to move, to get dressed, to brush my hair, to fake a mood, to simply exist. These may be simple things for him, but to me, they’re painfully difficult. The very thought of leaving this room is agonizing. It’s a paperweight in the pit of my stomach.

“Don’t let me down,” he adds, pressing the issue. “I need you there.”

Looking at him from over my shoulder, I release a defeated sigh. “Fine.”

I drag myself over to the closet, grab some clothes, and lock myself in my bathroom while Noah waits for me to get ready.

The sun is shining today, and I squint against its brightness as we walk onto the front porch. Everything illuminates under the rays of light making the plants appear greener. Funny how a little light can make things prettier—happier. So, why doesn’t it have the same effect on me?

The day goes by in a synthetic blur of slow motion. In a sea of excitement and celebration for summer to begin, I stand on a sinking island. Surrounded by hundreds of people, I’m alone, wondering why I can’t feel a particle of what they feel but wishing I could. I should be happy that I don’t have to come back to this place for three months, that I won’t have to face the ridicules and side-eyes. But, strangely, I’m not.

I’m sad, and that breeds confusion because I don’t want to leave even though these people make me miserable.

I’m still trying to unravel the mess of emotions inside myself when Noah pushes his way through a hoard of kids with a huge smile on his face. “There you are,” he shouts above the ruckus. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”