He’s wearing a hoodie that fits this time, one he didn’t steal from me. And sunglassesinside. But he’s laughing at something Damon says, his whole face lighting up, throwing his head back, and I think I’m going to be sick.
I start shoving things into my backpack. Textbook, notebook, highlighters, one of them rolls off the table and hits the floor, but I leave it. My laptop goes in, and I barely fit it in my backpack, but I don’t worry about it. Leaving it half zipped. I grab my jacket off the back of the chair, and I keep my head down, moving toward the side door.
I don’t look back until the door shuts behind me and the cold air hits my face.
And standing in the cold February air, my bag half open, coffee spilled over my hand, all I can think is…
He seemed fine.
Laughing, hanging out with his friends, he seemed completely fine.
Happy.
Without me.
My charger is missing.
It’s not plugged in by my bed or in the pocket of my backpack, where I usually keep it. I check. Over and over. I pull everything out of my bag and put it back in, and the charger is not there.
My laptop is on eleven percent.
I had it this morning, I know I did. I remember unplugging it. I packed up my stuff and went to class and then the library and—
The library.
I see it now, clear as day, grabbing my laptop off the table and stuffing it into my bag and leaving everything else behind because I was too busy trying not to be seen by my ex,if I can even call him that.
I sit on the edge, burying my face in my hands, and I try not to lose it over something so fucking small.
But a show I’ve been waiting months to watch finally dropped on streaming today, and I’ve been thinking about it all day. It’s the only thing I have to look forward to right now, and maybe that’s a little pathetic, but it is what it is.
I get up and go out to the common area.
Ryan is on the floor in front of the couch holding a controller, a game on the TV, with another guy from our floor sitting beside him in the same position.
“Hey.”
“Mm.”
“Can I borrow your laptop charger?”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t look away for a second. I’m surprised he hears me. “in the drawer.”
“Thanks.”
I go back into the room and open his dresser, assuming that’s what he meant. The top drawer is socks and underwear, no charger. The second drawer is mostly t-shirts and sweats.
I crouch down and open the bottom drawer.
It’s full of shit he should probably throw away. Notebooks, loose pens, an old calculator, some folded papers that might be last semester’s assignments. I push things aside, looking for the charger, moving a notebook out of the way, and—
I stop.
It’s a composition notebook, black and white cover, worn from use. Nothing unusual about it.
Except Ryan doesn’t use this kind of notebook. He only likes college-ruled. He spent thirty minutes talking about it on our school supplies trip last August.
But I use them.
