“Starling.”

“What, Evan?” I ask wearily, rubbing at the headache that’s starting to form behind my eyes.

“We could be friends.”

I scoff. “No, we couldn’t.” Forcing my feet into motion, I walk away, pushing my AirPods into my ears and turning up the volume as Eminem blasts loud and angry, fueling my steps with more vigor and my heart with enough bravado to not look back.

My head is pounding by the time I slide my key card into the scanner on the front door and stumble inside. The stairs feel insurmountable, but I’d rather struggle to get to my room, than crash in the living room and be found by the housemates I’ve yet to meet.

Each step makes my brain rattle, my eyes blur and the ball of tension I can feel in my neck worsen. When I finally mount the top step and spot my bed, I crawl on top of the comforter and then collapse in a heap, my backpack still over my shoulders.

“Urgh,” I moan as I force myself upright, letting the bag slip from my shoulders and fall haphazardly to the floor. There’s a bottle of pain meds in the bathroom, but the thought of getting up and walking there makes me feel ill, so instead I slump down onto the mattress, close my eyes and try to push all thoughts of Evan, Courtney, Green Acres, my mom and Sebastian from my mind.

“Wake up, little bird.”

The softly spoken, familiar voice curls through my mind, wrapping around my brain like vines hanging from a tree. My eyes flutter open and for a moment, I swear I can see him, standing at the end of the bed, his face hidden in shadow, but then I blink and when I open my eyes a millisecond later, he’s gone, an unwanted figment of my imagination.

It’s twilight, the sun’s starting to set, casting patterns through the window and across my room. It’s pretty and I glance out of the glass, admiring the dying orange embers that are highlighting the horizon.

My head feels better, but my neck is stiff and my mouth is dry. I’ve slept the day away again and forgotten to eat. My stomach feels hollow when I remember the last proper meal I ate was the last dinner I shared with my dad two days ago. Rolling into a sitting position, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and head for the bathroom, relieving my bladder before washing up and grabbing the bottle of painkillers from the counter, tipping two into my hand.

Making my way back to the bed, I grab my backpack from where I dumped it earlier and take out one of the bottles of water, using the liquid to swallow the pills before drinking the rest of the bottle. I eat half the sandwich, but the bread is dry, the salad limp and the chicken kind of mushy so I ditch the rest into the trash can.