It wasn’t.
Because I kept expecting him to appear where he usually did—outside the café, at practice entrances, in the middle of some loud group of people like he belonged to the noise.
But he wasn’t there.
And I hated that I noticed.
“Okay,” Serena said, sliding into the seat across from me in the library. “You’ve been staring at your screen for twenty minutes without typing anything.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re buffering.”
I clicked my pen once. “I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
I ignored her and forced my eyes back to the article draft.
Blackthorne basketball mid-season momentum. Draft projections. Team dynamics.
Normal.
Boring.
Safe.
Except it wasn’t safe anymore because every time I wrote the wordReed, my brain did something irritatingly unprofessional.
Serena leaned forward. “You haven’t seen him since Saturday, right?”
“I don’t track him.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
She raised an eyebrow.
I hated her.
“Fine,” I muttered. “No.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s not interesting.”
“It is when you start acting like a ghost got deleted from your routine.”
“I don’t have routines involving him.”
Serena smiled slowly like she knew something I didn’t.
“That’s worse,” she said.
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t like the way that felt true.
