There’s a shuffling sound coming through the door and I see a shadow in the window. Either someone is coming to answer my knocking or I’ve interrupted a serial killer in the middle of a spree and this night is about to take a turn. The wave—roiling, hot-cold, suffocating—has set my teeth on edge and made my eyelids heavy. Despite the chill and decreasing daylight, there’s a part of me that wants to lie down right here on Adam’s front stoop and go to sleep forever.

The turn of the door handle wakes me up a bit and a familiar dark-haired head pokes around the corner. Adam’s curls are more of a mess than usual, and it makes my stomach twinge. I want to soothe his hair, make it look less crazed, but I also want to indulge running my fingers through it. He looks like an odd, black-and-white version of himself—sapped of color, full of contrast; circles under his eyes, his freckles black against the unnatural paleness of his dark skin. He squints at me around the door like he’s looking into the sun and it makes me itch, the blue getting into my blood vessels and making me skittish.

My system is rejecting whatever this is instead of slotting it into place like usual. It feels different—bigger and more unruly. I push through it to try and focus on what’s in front of me, the reality of the moment. Adam’s long fingers curl around the edge of the door as he pulls it open wider and it’s like the door was a barrier between us, keeping his emotions at bay. Now it all rushes in, the suffocating blue with the bitter taste of nervousness.

“Caleb,” Adam croaks, “what are you doing here?”

“Sorry.” I throw up my hands in a placating gesture, like I’m trying to calm a spooked woodland creature. “I thought we were hanging out, but if this is a bad time…”

“Shit,” he breathes, “I meant to text you. I’m sorry.”

His words are apologizing for not texting but the strain in his voice makes it sound like he’s sorry for something much bigger. Black sludge seeps out of him, mixing with the blue wave, creating a slow whirlpool that numbs me as it sinks into my skin. As I watch him press his eyes closed, I realize what that uniquely sharp sludge is—he’s disappointed in himself. He thinks he’s let me down.

“It’s okay,” I assure him, “we can hang out tomorrow if you want—”

“No.” He steps over the threshold as if to stop me from leaving. “No, I mean, you’re already here. You might as well come inside.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.