It was the most noise I’d heard from his room in what felt like forever. The last time had been over a week ago, when I woke to a thud, as if he had crashed to the floor in the middle of the night. I’d rushed to his door, knocking desperately, begging him to let me in, but he never answered.

I threw back the blankets and pressed my ear against the wall. More rummaging, more movement. Then the unmistakable sound of a zipper and then something being dragged across the floor.

A bag?

A suitcase?

Dread coiled in my stomach.

No. No, no, no...

I shot out of bed and ran to my door, yanking it open. Blake’s door was wide open. My breath caught in my throat.

His room was bare. His books? Gone. His clothes? Gone.

Panic clawed up my throat. He was leaving.

Blake wasn’t supposed to leave until the end of the summer. He had four weeks left. Four weeks to fix this, to fix us.

Why was he leaving now? Without saying anything?

I turned sharply, bolting down the stairs just in time to hear the front door slam shut. I didn’t run outside right away. Instead, I hesitated in the kitchen, scanning the counters for something, anything—a note, a sign, a stupid scribbled message that meant he at least thought about me before walking out the door.

But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Heat rushed through my body, rage burning through the panic, lighting me from the inside out.

He was just going to leave? After everything? Just like that?

I didn’t even pause to grab shoes. I ran outside, my bare feet slapping against the pavement as I sprinted across the driveway. Blake was stuffing his suitcase into Jamal’s trunk, his wet hair dripping from the shower.

Jamal sat in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles were white. The window was rolled up, but I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes flicked nervously between me and Blake, like he wanted no part of this.

I didn’t care. “What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded, my voice trembling with barely contained fury.

Blake barely spared me a glance. “I’m going,” he replied, as if that was supposed to explain everything.

“Oh, you’re going,” I said bitterly, circling the car to face him. “Just like that?”

“I can’t stay here,” he said without even looking at me.

“You can,” I insisted, stepping forward. “You should.”

“No,” he said, his voice cold. “I shouldn’t.”

“Why? Because you think this is your fault?”

“It is my fault.”

“No, it’s not!” I shot back, desperate now.

I didn’t wait for him to answer. I grabbed his suitcase and yanked it back out of the trunk, throwing it onto the driveway.