“If I’m not, if I won’t be, can you stop calling? Because it…” The white plaster of my ceiling swims before my eyes. “God, it hurts, Gray. I don’t know what we are or where we stand. I don’t know if I should hold on or let go or move on. And I need to know. I know where we’re supposed to stand, but not where we really do. You’ve said things…I’ve said things…” I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I taste metal. “I want this—us—for real, Gray,” I admit. “I need to know if you do too.”

It’s quiet for so long that I think we’ve been disconnected and I’ve been pouring my heart out to open air this whole time.

Then, he finally responds, in a way that makes me wish the phone lines had been snipped after all. “I have to go, Evie.”

The next two weeks pass slowly…and silently.

Gray never calls.

Day by day, I give up on the hope that he will a little more. Until there’s none of the pesky emotion left. If I’d never let myself hope, this would be easier. I know Gray cares about me. You can’t share moments like we have and walk away completely unaffected. But there’s a long leap from care to love. One I apparently made solo.

Maybe I should have waited to ask him in person.

Maybe I pushed too fast.

Maybe he just needed more time.

But in the meantime, I was falling and falling and falling. Better to start pulling myself up now than tumble any further.

Even my mother notices my depression and forces me to come over for dinner. We’ve always been close, but she’s never asked me about boys or relationships or love unless I broached the subject first. She’s not the touchy-feely sort, and neither am I.

Henry and Juliet Phillips join us for dinner, which makes it extra challenging for me. Not only are they a potent reminder of Gray, but Henry’s presence makes me feel like I can’t blame the dark circles under my eyes and my pale skin on the insane hours I’ve been working lately. I’m covering twice as many shifts as the next intern. Third-year residents know my name. Every nurse on staff has my pager number memorized.

Professionally, I’m killing it.

My personal life is another story. I’ve barely seen Sloane as of late, and I know she’s worried about me. On the rare occasions I’m home, I’m sleeping. Work and sleep are my two respites. When I’m dashing around the hospital, I’m too busy to think. When I’m home, I’m too tired to do anything but embrace the blissful oblivion of sleep.