"Hi."

His voice is warm, smooth. Nothing like the gravelly quality I'd grown used to while down in that dilapidated basement. He looks so normal now, standing before me with hands shoved in his front pockets and eyes scanning my face with hesitancy. He's supposed to hate me, but he looks relieved.

"Hi," I barely manage to whisper in return.

"You look good," he tells me, letting his gaze swing down the length of my body and then back up to my face.

"Thanks," I nod, shifting and crossing my arms. "I feel good. What about you? I mean, you're back... already."

"Yeah." He laughs. "I couldn't stay cooped up in my room anymore. The doctor finally cleared me to return to school this week with the promise that I'd take it easy and wouldn't carry more than fifteen pounds."

"Sounds like a challenge." I try to smile, teasing, but I know the expression stretching its way across my face looks forced.

"Yep," he nods, a soft chuckle passing through his lips. "I'd usually love a good challenge, but not sure it's worth it this time. I suppose that if I ever want to run again, I've got to let the healing process do its thing."

"Sounds wise." I flash him a quick grin before dropping my eyes to the ground and shoving my hands into the pocket of my hoodie. I hate talking about his injuries. I hate knowing that life isn't the same for him. That he's suffering.

Silence tickles the air for several beats but I've lost my ability to communicate. There's so much that I could say—that I need to say—but I can't. Words aren't coming because my brain refuses to form a single thought.

"Do you—" Bryson stops and glances around the almost empty hallway for a moment before taking a small step forward and lowering his voice. "Do you think we could meet up later?... To talk?"

No. No no no! It's a simple request. Just talking. But I can't do it. I'm not ready yet. The very thought of discussing all that went down that day makes it feel as though I've got a clamp around my chest and it's squeezing mercilessly against my lungs. I inhale a large breath, scratching the rim of my ear before turning my attention back to the patient boy in front of me.

"I think that's a good idea," I tell him. "But, I'm not sure I'm ready to relive everything just yet."

"Oh, no." He shakes his head. "That's not what I wanted to talk about. I was hoping..." He pauses to lick his lips, his hand lifting to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Shoot!" he hisses, eyes closed as he shakes his head again in annoyance. "Dang-it!"

"What's wrong?" I question, moving closer and sliding my hand around his elbow. I'm not sure what I was assuming the problem was, but my first instinct is to make certain he's stable. With a back injury, I'm not sure what to expect and it'd be unfortunate if he lost his balance and fell.

He pulls his arms away from me and then shoots a hand out like some kind of silent apology, as if realizing he'd just refused my help.

"Sorry," he says, reaching to squeeze my shoulder gently, his other hand still rubbing at his closed eyes. "It's just—my head is so freaking foggy. I keep losing my thoughts."

"Oh."

"Yeah." He groans, running both hands down his face before settling his green gaze on me again. "It's gotten better," he assures me. "I couldn't remember anything about that day for a while, but I've at least figured that part of my memory out. Now it's just headaches and confusion."

"Will it keep getting better?" I ask, words tentative.

"The doctors think so," he shrugs. "But at this point, there's no guerilla."

"No what?" I question, eyebrows drawn together.

"What did I say?"

"Guerilla."

There's a stretch of quiet as Bryson analyzes me. His forehead is crinkled in thought, confusion circling his green-brown eyes, and then he's shaking his head in frustration.

"What were we talking about?" he asks, sliding his palms against his dark jeans before lifting a hand to grip the back of his neck. He looks so insecure, eyes pleading for me to enlighten him.

"I asked if the confusion and headaches would keep improving," I explain, "And you said that the doctors think so, but there's no guerilla."

I don't want to laugh. Really. But when I see Bryson cock his head to the side like a lost puppy, my lips twitch and a snort vibrates past my lips. He lifts a finger to scratch his temple, face cracking into mild amusement when he sees that I can't contain my laughter anymore.

"I have no idea," he laughs with me. "Like I said, my thoughts are just—Oh! Guarantee!"

I keep laughing, my hand raising to shield my smile from him. "What?"

"Guarantee," he repeats. "Not guerilla. I was trying to say that there is no guarantee."

I allow my mouth to form an "O", understanding dawning on the both of us. We continue laughing for a moment before a teacher comes strolling through the hall to announce that we should be in class now. The two of us part ways without ever setting up a time to meet up, and I'm grateful. I wasn't about to remind him and I'm pretty sure he already forgot. At least, for now, I've got a little more time to pull myself together before I have to acknowledge my guilt to Bryson.

———

We don't have another opportunity to be alone for several weeks. Other than the two classes we share together and lunch, our paths haven't even crossed. On occasion, I'll find him talking to his friends and his eyes will snag on mine. I'll see a hopeful glint spark across his face, but I pretend not to notice. Instead, I simply wave, smile, and slip away before he can get a chance to chase me down.

I know he wants to talk, but I can't imagine he'd have anything good to say. He assured me he didn't want to talk about what we went through, but I can only think of one other thing he'd feel the need to clear the air about...

The kiss.

It had just kind of happened in the moment. I knew he didn't feel the same way for me that I did for him, and I really don't want to have to hear him explain that to me. I get it. I don't need an explanation.

I find myself growing even more certain—and more distant—when I spot him chatting with Claudia. She's laughing at whatever he's saying, and though it doesn't appear to be all that flirtatious, it doesn't stop my chest from shriveling into a throbbing, aching mess of disappointment.

Dodging the couple, I slip into one of the Sunday School classrooms—which is now being used for Homeroom—and slouch down at one of the tables. Cooper rounds the corner and makes his way over, sliding down into the seat beside me.

"Ev," he greets, putting his hands behind his head and leaning his chair onto its back legs.

"Coop," I say in return.

"When are we gonna hang out again?" he questions, dropping his chair back to the floor and resting his cheek in his palm as he stares at me.

"I don't know," I shrug. "Whenever."

He nods, smiling at me before turning his attention to the front of the class where the teacher stands. "Today then. I'm taking you out for ice-cream after school."

"But it's freezing out," I inform him, trying to keep my voice low so as not to draw the attention of Mr. Simmons as he gives us the day's announcements.

"And...?"

"Ok," I shrug. "Ice-cream it is... as long as you buy me a hot chocolate too."

Cooper scoffs at my request, shaking his head in disgust. "So demanding."

I grin, averting my attention to Mr. Simmons just as Bryson enters the classroom. He's late, but nobody bothers to mention this since we don't have bells to signal tardiness anymore. Instead, Mr. Simmons pauses his speech to wave Bryson in and then continues.

The classroom is made up of three tables, each with about five chairs, and most of those chairs are taken now. Unbothered, Bryson settles for a spot closer to the front. With a head-tilt of acknowledgment to Cooper and me, he stiffly lowers himself into the only seat remaining at the large table and attempts to stretch his back.

I find myself watching Bryson throughout the forty-minute class. I've known him to always be a good student. He pays close attention to detail and always seeks clarification on things he doesn't understand. But not today. Today I watch as his attention drifts toward the window, his chin propped in his hand as he stares at nothing in particular. He looks distracted, like his mind is a thousand miles away from homeroom.

I notice this again in Chemistry. Not once does he pull a pencil from his bag or attempt to even look like he's taking notes. He's just blank, gazing off into nowhere as Mr. Denton drones on and on about chemical bonds. His lack of focus is distracting me from taking notes, and I do my best to yank my attention away from him.

As the weeks trickle by, I notice this has become a new normal for Bryson. Sometimes he'll manage to take a few notes, but those notes eventually fade into random doodles and scribbles. He never seems to turn in homework and there has even been a time or two when a friend of his has had to nudge him awake. I know he mentioned he was having trouble focusing, but I'd hoped to see some improvement by now. But there's not. His thoughts are still jumbled when he speaks and his ability to participate in conversation seems more like a chore than anything else.

I peg this as just a part of his healing process, and I tell myself that it's going to take time. But, when I start to notice that he's absent from school, that's when I start to worry. A couple days drawl by and then an entire week. When Christmas and New Years pass and he still hasn't returned, I start to play with the idea of calling his house to make sure he's okay. My mom has the Andrews' number even if I don't have his anymore. I haven't managed to find the nerve to ask him for his new number since we both had to replace our phones.

Spotting Claudia a ways down the hall, I decide to give her a shot. She's closer with Bryson than I've ever been. The possibility of her knowing how he's doing is much more likely, and I'm just about willing to do anything to get answers as long as it doesn't involve me going to his house. The thought of me and Bryson being alone is too nerve-wracking at this point.

"Everly!" she beams, slinging her backpack onto her shoulders and wrapping me in a tight hug. "How've you been?"

"Oh, you know." I shrug, my tone casual as the two of us proceed down the hallway toward the cafeteria.

"I've been meaning to ask how you've been handling all this," she says, tucking a notebook under her arm and bringing the tip of her fingernail to her lips. "I heard it got a little 'dark' down in that old house." She uses finger quotes around the word 'dark' and I know exactly what she's referring to.

At the time, the possibility of dying hadn't felt dark. It'd felt almost freeing. Letting go of life would have been far better than withering into a skeleton in that pit. But looking back, I can see just how mentally drained and hopeless we'd both been and we hadn't even realized it. We'd nearly given up, and what a shame that would have been if we had.

"Um." I scratch the side of my head, smiling to cover up my discomfort. "Yeah, I suppose it got a little dark." I don't elaborate any further and Claudia doesn't push, though her eyes do narrow in amused mischief.

"I also heard it got a little heated down there."

She must see the hesitant panic in my gaze because she simply laughs, her hand offering a quick squeeze to my forearm.

"It's fine," she promises. "Can't say I blame you for going after something you've always wanted."

I've always liked Claudia. She's easygoing and sweet, but right now, I'm feeling this psychotic need to strangle her. In her mind, Bryson and I were simply enjoying a scary moment together. She's romanticized the entire ordeal, not realizing just how horrific it really was. Yes, we kissed. Yes, it was magical. But that was just a few moments of relief. The remainder of those two days was misery. A misery I'm happy never unearthing again.

"It really wasn't a big deal," I hear myself saying, just wanting this conversation to end.

"Yeah," she nods. "That's what he said too. Just a simple mistake. I suppose those kinds of things are bound to happen when two people are left alone, right? A need for comfort can lead to all kinds of things."

She keeps talking but I find myself not following her dialogue anymore. Instead, I keep circling around that one word: mistake. That's how Bryson felt about kissing me. Can't say I'm all that surprised. I'd assumed he hadn't really meant it, but hearing it come from someone else—especially someone other than him—just hurts that much more. The fact that he's walking around telling people that he mistakenly kissed me when we thought we were going to die doesn't sit well with me. In fact, it's humiliating.

I can feel the warmth travel up my throat and sting the back of my eyes. Swallowing, I glance around the hallway for some means of escape. I have to get out of here.

"...really sweet though."

"I need to do something really quick," I suddenly say, cutting her off. "I'll meet you in the lunchroom."

"Oh." Concern weaves a bumpy pattern into Claudia's forehead. "Okay."

There's regret tinging her words and I know she understands where she went wrong. She's not a stupid person, but sometimes she forgets to think before she speaks. Offering a sympathetic smile, she nods once and then watches me leave.

I march my way toward the class that's currently being used for Debate Club and peer inside. Chloe is sitting on the table staring down at Devon Rayfert—aka. the boy she's obsessed with—as she watches him sketch something on a piece of paper. She laughs, her hand grazing his arm, and guilt pricks my chest for what I'm about to do.

"Chloe," I say, voice just shy of wobbly. "I need you."

Her large blue eyes flash up to meet mine, brows pinched as she takes in my current state.

"Yep. Coming." Nodding, she jumps off the table, muttering "Duty calls," to Devon as she hurries toward me.

Her lack of hesitation nearly breaks me, my heart swelling at her compassion. In this phase of emotional confusion and shaky friendships, at least I've got one person I can count on.