“You implied it.”
Tilly looked at the floor. “I’m trying to make this easier.”
“Well, it doesn’t,” she said. “It just makes me feel like you don’t want to be near me.”
Their head snapped up. Something flickered in their eyes. Not anger. Not exactly.
But not nothing.
But they didn’t say anything.
They took their key and headed toward the elevators.
Savannah’s room was beige and quiet and unbearably small.
She sat on the edge of the bed and pressed her palms to her face. She’d been holding everything in since the storm. Since the truck. Since the hallway at work. Since waking up each morning feeling like she had an iron band around her ribs.
She hated the distance between them. She hated the way Tilly acted like she was fragile. She hated the silence.
She hated that she didn’t know how to fix it.
She stood, paced, sat again, then stood once more. Her hands felt useless.
Her room felt wrong.
Her chest felt wrong.
She walked to the door before she realized she was doing it.
Her heart pounded so hard it made her vision throb.
This was a terrible idea.
This was the only idea she had.
She opened her door and stepped into the hallway.
The carpet muffled her footsteps as she stopped in front of Tilly’s door. Her knuckles hovered.
No.
Yes.
God, she didn’t know.
She knocked before she could talk herself out of it.
Soft at first.
Then again, louder.
Footsteps inside. A pause. The quiet click of the lock.
Tilly opened the door.
They stood there in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair damp from a shower, eyes wide the moment they saw her.
Stunned.
