Usually I’m the last person to trickle into seventh period English.

But today I’m nearly the first.

And even though I try to play it cool, I can’t help it. My eyes are fixed to the fourth chair in the third row.

Feeling—I guess, eager, maybe—for Q to show up, even though, to date, we’ve rarely even made eye contact in this class.

So I’m all kinds of disappointed when Ms. Taylor closes the door, Q apparently absent.

Which, I know is not my business, or my problem, or whatever—

But I wonder if he’s okay.

If I’m honest, a part of me half expected him to text me after I fled our little bedroom showdown. Figured at the very least I’d get a don’t ever come here again.

But instead, nothing.

And nothing, in a way, is worse than anger.

When someone yelled at you, or sent you an all-caps text, at least you knew how they felt. And yeah, the last time I saw Q—okay, really the last two times I’ve seen Q—he was angry, so maybe that’s where things still stood.

But what if, like, the reanimation gave him a change of heart that, like, wasn’t immediately evident? What if, after I’d run out his front door and across the lawn like a track-and-field champ, he’d had an intense moment of self-reflection, had suddenly realized why things had gone south between us?

Felt beyond terrible? Wanted to sincerely apologize, except he was afraid of how I’d react? Intense moments of self-reflection didn’t mean you lost all your pride.

Maybe he was waiting for me to make the first move?

Waiting for an opening?

And I’m feeling slightly better until the classroom door swings open.

I stare in a way that suggests I’m willing to have the conversation, but either Q’s possibly embarrassed by his previous behavior or he’s content to keep things status quo, because he avoids eye contact.

I maintain my it’s cool man stare, but Q’s eyes look everywhere but at me.

I study him from afar. He seems normal. Same posture. The go-with-the-flow look on his face, just as before.

And it’s strange, knowing that someone I knew, someone I was once so close to, was, in the most literal sense, living on borrowed time.

And I’m struck once more with guilt.

Because this sucks.

Because if Q knew, there’s no way he’s hanging out in seventh period English right now.

Because how were you to grieve a loss that wasn’t currently a loss?

As sad as I feel, it’s nowhere near the way you feel when someone actually dies. Because I’m also happy he’s alive again.

So, maybe when Q . . . you know . . . I’d grieve retroactively, twice as hard?

Maybe I—

Wait, why is everyone staring at me?