I lie there, listening for signs of life. The coffeemaker beeps, signaling the pot is brewed, and down the hall the shower is running. My parents are trying to carry on, I guess. But I know that they, too, had this moment of waking up and remembering that Jonah isn’t here. My heart hurts to think what that must have been like for them.

I’m so glad things are okay with Sam again, largely because I hope today holds lots of Starworld. Starworld will get me through.

I get up and find the sketch Sam left on my desk, and my breath catches. I know right away that it is meant to be a drawing of me — a very charitable version of me, with a perfect nose and delicate cheekbones and gorgeous hair, wearing a crown made out of stars. She’s even included my birthmark, and somehow under her rendering it looks less like a flaw and more like an intentional particularity, a part of a thoughtful whole. I reach for my phone and write to tell her how incredible it is, and how much her company meant to me last night, but minutes tick past with no response. I hope she’s okay. I hope she wasn’t freaked out by everything I dumped on her.

I glance through my other texts. My friends sent messages of love and well-wishing last night, letting me know how much they missed me, which was nice. Still, it doesn’t look like my absence killed anyone’s fun, judging by the photos that whiz by my field of vision when I look at social media. I feel weirdly distanced from it all, like I never even belonged there anyway. But then I think of Hunter there without me and feel a small crush of regret. Does he feel abandoned, too? The idea of making someone else feel that way makes me want to die. Why does being human have to hurt so much?

I go downstairs, thinking I might have some oatmeal or some toast, but those things will just remind me of Jonah. My parents are too quiet, and the sounds of the house — the tick of the clock, the heat turning on and off — are too loud. I go back upstairs and hide out in my room with headphones on. I have plenty of homework to keep me busy.

Cammie messages me in the afternoon. I don’t know how to respond without asking about Homecoming and the overnighter, which I don’t particularly want to hear about just now, so I ignore the messages like the asshole I apparently am.

But after a while, she calls. “Hey, are you okay? Did you get my messages?”

“I’m sorry.” I sink onto my bed. “I suck. I suck at everything.”

“Oh, Zoe. I know how hard things must be. But I missed you so much this weekend. And I don’t even know how you’re doing.”