Page 292 of End Game

Going to Chicago doesn't erase that.

My brain keeps acting like every new door requires me to burn the room behind me.

Maybe that's a me problem.

Probably.

Most problems are.

Mila stands and hugs me.

I stiffen. “This feels manipulative.”

“It is.”

Cruz joins.

Then Alex.

Suddenly I'm in a four-person band hug that smells like sweat and rehearsal-room carpet.

“This is horrible.”

“Go to Chicago,” Mila says into my shoulder.

“And become useful to us,” Cruz adds.

There they are.

My people.

By midnight, I have made several discoveries.

One: we have spent years joking about never splitting the party—apparently real life doesn’t give a shit about table rules.

Two: four weeks is twenty-eight days.

I already knew this, but seeing it on Google somehow makes it worse.

Three: Denver to Chicago is approximately two and a half hours by plane.

Also information I possessed before tonight.

Four: if you search “can a relationship survive one month apart” at twelve-sixteen in the morning, the internet assumes you are seventeen or deploying overseas.

Neither is helpful. Also, Reddit thinks I need therapy, which feels rude mostly because it is technically correct.

Five: Micah knows when I'm spiraling even if I am completely silent.

Which feels invasive.

He comes into his bedroom and stops.

I'm sitting on the floor against the side of his bed with my laptop on my thighs.

He takes one look at me. “What are you doing?”

“Research.”