Michelle hadn’t been able to find her, so Summer ate alone.

After dinner, Summer skipped working out, and went and sat in front of her stereo, plugging in her new headphones.

She had to lie very close to the stereo, so they wouldn’t come unplugged.

She started “Silent All These Years.”

It was like sinking into a warm, unhappy bath. Like being gently raked from head to toe with familiar misery.

The song played over Summer and through her, and she settled into it, hollow and numb.

Summer had to move her stereo, so she could listen to music on her headphones while she worked at her desk. It meant she couldn’t lie on the floor anymore. She hated wearing headphones. She hated feeling tethered. But it was worth it to never have to talk to her neighbor.

She’d eaten on the north side of the cafeteria again tonight. She’d tried to talk Michelle into eating on the north side from now on. But Michelle liked a guy who ate on the south side, and the rest of the girls on their floor all ate on the south side.

“Don’t let Charlie change your life like this,” Michelle said.

“It’s not much of a change,” Summer said. “It’s literally just the other half of the cafeteria. They have all the same food.”

“You know that the soft serve is better on the south side . . .”

Summer couldn’t argue with that; it was true.

She ate dinner by herself for the rest of the week. Like a first-semester freshman.

Summer had listened to “Silent All These Years” so many times, she could hardly even feel it anymore. She could hardly even hear it. It was just the sound that her room made.

She wasn’t sure she even remembered how to listen to other songs . . . She had a one-track mind now. Every other song sounded like a mistake someone made while they were trying to play “Silent All These Years.”

She flipped through her CD crate, feeling tetchy and fickle.

She hated her new headphones. They’d taken her last eight dollars—but they were so cheap, they were already buzzing in one ear.

She’d shoved that CD from the guy downstairs in here with the rest of her CDs. She wondered what a guy like that considered breakup music . . . Metallica? Korn?

Summer ejected her Tori Amos CD and put the CD he’d given her into the carousel. She hit play.

She didn’t recognize the first track . . .

Maybe she’d heard it on an oldies station?

Or in church? It kind of sounded like a church song. It didn’t sound sad. How was this a breakup song? The lyrics weren’t sad. The piano wasn’t sad.

“Morning has broken, like the first morning . . .”

Summer’s head dropped into her hands. There were tears streaming down her cheeks.