I clenched my fists, feeling something sharp rise in my chest. “Did I do something? Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“Then what?” I threw my hands up. “What is it?”

He still wouldn’t look at me.

My stomach twisted, frustration curling into something worse. Something ugly and aching and desperate.

“Blake,” I said, softer this time. “I… I miss you.”

That finally made him pause. For a second, his grip on the book tightened. His fingers twitched like he wanted to turn another page but couldn’t.

He finally looked up, and for a moment, I thought—hoped—I’d gotten through to him.

That I wasn’t the only one who felt like something had shifted. Like something was wrong.

But then he just sighed and said, “You should get a hobby.”

I blinked. A hobby? “I’m sorry—what?”

He shrugged. “Might help.”

Help with what? The fact that he was shutting me out?

I stared at him, feeling the weight of every single day we spent together. Every moment, every conversation, every time I thought we were something unshakable.

My throat burned. “You are my hobby.”

I thought maybe that would break him. That he’d finally look at me. That he’d say something, anything, to make this make sense. But he didn’t.

He just turned another page and kept reading.

So, I did what he told me to.

I got a hobby.

Dancing.

And it helped—kind of.

It gave me something to do, something to focus on, something to keep me from sitting in my room at night waiting for the knock that never came. It kept me from spiraling and dwelling too much on the space Blake left behind. But no amount of dancing could change the fact that I missed him. That I wanted to shake him until he looked at me again.

So one day, I did.

I didn’t actually shake him, but I did slam my hands down on the table he was sitting at, making his book jump. “Blake.”

His eyes flicked up to mine, unreadable, before dropping back to the page. “Beverly.”

“You can’t ignore me forever.”

He hummed like he wasn’t listening, turning another page.

“You. Can’t. Ignore. Me. Forever.”

“Haven’t been ignoring you.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Right. You just suddenly forgot how to have a conversation with me.”

Nothing.

I clenched my teeth, planting myself in the chair across from him. “What are you even reading?”

“Arabic.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Arabic,” he repeated, still not looking at me. “Jamal’s parents speak it. If I go over there, I want to be able to understand them. You know, actually communicate instead of standing there like an idiot while they switch to English for my sake.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

That was so…Blake. To just wake up one day and decide to learn an entire language, no hesitation. And for what?