"Same thing."
"It's not?—"
"I need time. Space. Towork through this."
"We can work through it together."
"No." He steps back when I reach for him. "I need to do this alone."
The rejection is physical. My chest cracks open. "Are you leaving us? The pack?"
Long pause. Too long. "I don't know."
"Calder—"
"I'm sorry. I just... I can't right now."
He walks away.
I stand alone in the November dusk, cold seeping through my jacket, feeling everything I thought we were building crumble.
Dinner the next day is wrong from the start.
Three of us at a table meant for four. Calder's empty seat glares like an accusation.
Julian studies his food with unusual focus. Tyler keeps glancing at the door. I push salad around my plate without eating.
Other students notice. Whispers start again.
"He's catastrophizing," Julian says quietly. "Turning one incident into proof of fundamental unworthiness."
"Can you not therapize right now?" Tyler's voice has an edge.
"I'm trying to understand so I can fix it."
"You can't," I say. Both of them look at me. "We can't.He has to choose to come back."
"And if he doesn't?" Tyler asks.
Silence answers.
Julian breaks it. "We give him space but stay present. Make clear we're still here when he's ready."
"How much space?" Tyler presses.
"As much as he needs."
"What if space is all he wants?" My voice cracks on the last word.
Tyler reaches for my hand. I let him, but it feels wrong. Something fundamental missing that his warmth can't replace.
Julian notices my untouched plate. "You need to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Your heat's approaching. You need to maintain?—"
"I said I'm not hungry."
