How was it I hadn’t gotten tired then? Why had my edit button—that thing that stopped people from being stupid or saying things without filtering them properly—failed me? Mine was gone. For those few moments of interaction, my button was nowhere to be found. It didn’t much matter though. It wasn’t like I was going to see the guy again anytime soon. I wasn’t going to the party he’d invited me to, and I really didn’t want to go out to The Den later that night either. All I wanted was to remain beneath my duvet for an hour or five and just be able to breathe.

Ultimately, I knew I couldn’t. Hiding in my room and shutting everything and everyone out would entail embracing the consequences, from my parents’ incessant questions, to the looks of concern they, along with Noah and Dr. Foster, would direct at me. It would make for the opposite effect I intended. Instead of shutting the world out by hiding, I’d be sending a distress signal that would lead to endless conversations I was neither ready nor willing to have.

That was the only reason I ended up going to The Den. Because I knew it would earn me points—especially with Dr. Foster. It was just the kind of thing she’d love hearing about. I bet she’d even end up finding some hidden meaning to it, like I’d unconsciously been trying to get better or something. That, and it sure would beat suffering through another family dinner.

No one talked to me anyway, not really. I’m talked at, and it didn’t matter what the topic was, it was never something of any real consequence; I was sick of having these discussions about things that ultimately didn’t matter, about things that were borderline irrelevant but always brought up. They had no weight, no real meaning to them. They were safe, the kind of things that couldn’t possibly aggravate anyone, which meant they were perfect for dealing with someone who was depressed, for they caused little to no damage.

It was a two birds, one stone kind of thing. Maintaining a certain level of connection while avoiding any major, deeper one. It was pointless, really. And if I wanted to discuss the weather or some riot in France, I might as well do it with people I just met, over alcohol and with some background music, instead of tension and contained animosity hidden behind the unfolding of civilized words.

*

“How did you like your first day at Grant?” Blake asked me.

We were sitting at the far end of the club, close to where the stage was. There were no bands playing that night, so a lot of people were sitting, either coupled up or in groups, alongside the edges of the stage.

“It was all right,” I said. “People seem nice, for the most part.”