I went along, I think, Reid’s voice so clear in my mind that I speed my pace gathering my breakfast, trying to flush it out with the tinkle of silverware in the drawer, the clink of a glass on the countertop, an unnecessary shake of a box of granola. My face feels flushed, and at this moment I’m grateful that she avoids me so thoroughly. Whatever it is she’s doing now, hanging out in the same space as me, she’ll probably soon enough go back to her room or take a shower.

But she doesn’t leave. She says, “Meg,” and it almost, almost sounds the way it used to. It almost sounds everyday, the sound of your name in your best friend’s voice, surely one of the best sounds there is. I’m so glad I wasn’t pouring the granola when she said it.

“Yeah?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Finally, I’m thinking, that stir of hope something closer to a swirl now, and I wish I was more prepared. For the first couple of months after Sibby had started pulling away—not home as frequently, answering my texts with friendly but bland, noncommittal replies, passing on offers to watch a favorite show or visit a neighborhood bar or restaurant—I’d tried so hard to connect. Lightly, at first, with jokes about how busy she always was, or once a clever, hand-drawn ransom note on her bedroom door: The Bachelorette season finale tonight or your cashmere sweater gets the dryer. Later, more serious efforts to talk it through, efforts that made me feel sweaty and sick with nerves, Sibby always brushing me off with a laughing reply, “I’m just busy, Meg! You worry too much.” A quick hug or promise to find some time soon would always have me feeling both vaguely better and vaguely unsatisfied, a disquieting familiarity in her brush-offs. I knew Sibby too well to think we’d gotten to the root of whatever the problem is, but after so many months I’ve become passive about it, locked in an old, painful fear of what pressing her might lead to.

“What’s up?” I lean back against the counter so I face where she’s sitting on the couch, the whole width of our apartment between us, but I’m sure this is the right move—not too eager, not too pressured.

“You know Elijah, right?”

This is an absurd question. He sleeps here three nights a week and has for the last three months; of course I know him. I know what kind of razor he uses. Frankly, in a thin-walled apartment, I am way too familiar with some of his most not-for-public-consumption noises.