How he’d slipped a tiny, hand-drawn card under my door after midnight, just because he thought it was funny to give me two birthdays in one day. It was a terrible doodle of me wearing a crown and holding a giant piece of cake, with Happy Birthday scribbled underneath it.

And now⁠—

Now, he wouldn’t even look at me.

I swallowed hard, squeezing my eyes shut.

No. I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t.

It was just a birthday.

I’d have plenty more.

* * *

I must have fallen asleep at some point because I woke up to the soft sound of something hitting my door.

Thump.

I blinked, groggy, the warmth of sleep still clinging to my skin. The room was dark except for the faint glow of my nightlight, casting soft shadows against the walls.

For a second, I thought I had imagined it.

Thump.

I sat up, my heart already picking up speed.

My eyes flickered to the clock on my nightstand. 2:12 AM.

Another thump.

Slowly, I pushed back my covers and slid out of my bed. My feet barely made a sound against the floor as I crept toward the door, pressing my palm against the wood, waiting.

Silence.

A few seconds passed, then⁠—

Thump.

It was quiet, barely anything. If I hadn’t been awake, I might not have heard it at all. But I was awake. I was listening.

I hesitated before wrapping my fingers around the doorknob, twisting it, and pulling it open just a crack. The hallway was dark, the only light spilling in from my nightlight.

I sucked in a sharp breath, my stomach twisting so hard it hurt. Blake. He was slumped against the wall, one knee bent, his arm draped loosely over it. He didn’t glance my way. He was staring straight ahead, his expression a blank mask in the dim light. His eyes were bloodshot, the dark circles beneath them stark against his pale skin. It looked like he’d been there for hours.

For a second, I wasn’t even sure if he was awake.

Then his head tilted slightly.

Had he—had he been banging his head against the door?

I opened the door a little wider. “Blake?”

Something about him felt off. Not just the exhaustion in his posture or the way his hands clenched into fists like he was holding something in. It was something I couldn’t name.

He didn’t look at me. Didn’t even blink. I hated him for this. For shutting me out for months. For ignoring me. For making me feel like I was nothing to him. But more than anything, I hated that even now, after everything, I still wanted to reach out to him.

“Are you…” I cleared my throat, trying again. “Are you okay?”

I hesitated before stepping forward, lowering myself onto the floor beside him, close enough that I could feel his warmth, but not close enough to touch.