Asad’s face blushes red, but he smiles back at me.

“Yeah, that time.” He bites his lower lip. “Is this my fault?”

“No.” I leave out the part where if anyone is to blame for the fact that our friend is under suicide watch on the third floor of a hospital, it’s me.

Asad nods, studying his feet, then flicks his eyes to me through his thick eyelashes.

“Are we okay?”

We.

Another stab.

“We will be.”

He exhales like he’s been storing up oxygen for a month and opens the door for us to walk through together.

Inside, a staring resurgence has swept Crossroads High. I’d all but forgotten the feel of all eyes on me in these narrow corridors. Except this time it’s not about me; it’s about Piper.

Some brave souls have the courage to actually ask me how she’s doing. Did they ever bother to ask her?

They want to know when she’s coming back. What happened, exactly.

I give them all the same answer.

“She’s fine.”

Others talk behind cupped hands, spinning rumor webs I can practically see threading from mouth to ear, spiraling down the hall, looping back and forth until the whole school is talking about the Girl Who Took the Pills.

Asad walks with me all day in the hallways, which become more unbearable by the minute. When people aren’t whispering about Piper, they’re making some asinine comment about how worried they are about her. Like they’ve been up all night pacing about the girl they didn’t give the time of day to a week ago.

A boy I’ve never even seen before stops me in the hall to tell me Piper was always really nice.

“Is,” I correct him. “Piper is nice.” He gives me the universal symbol for sympathy, cocking his head to the side and tucking his lips into a half frown. He nods like we’re having a soul-to-soul moment and then walks away, still watching me like I’m made of glass.

A girl in my math class even quotes some psych stats.

“My dad says burn victims are way more likely to have depression,” she tells me.

“Survivors,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“You said victims. We are burn survivors. We didn’t die.”

The worst part is when I walk past Piper’s locker, a makeshift shrine that looks like a Hallmark card threw up on it. Posters and pictures and sentiments ripped straight from cheesy Internet memes crowd the front of locker 681.

KEEP FIGHTING!

IT GETS BETTER!

WE’RE ALL HERE FOR YOU.

I think of the box of similar empty sentiments sitting in my room. I know everyone means well, but it bothers me anyway. Why couldn’t they have meant well a month ago? When Piper was just the girl in a wheelchair.