Lunch was at a rundown diner in the middle of nowhere. The kind of place with peeling menus, sticky tabletops, and a jukebox in the corner that hadn’t worked since before any of us were born.
We all crammed into a booth, elbows knocking, legs awkwardly squished together. Max immediately tried to convince the vampire waitress to give us a “student discount” (which didn’t exist), while Joy attempted to “enhancethe ambiance” by belting out the lyrics to a song playing over the speakers.
The waitress looked like she was one bad tip away from quitting on the spot.
I focused on normal things—like making sure my fries stayed on my own plate and triple-checking my notes for the documentary. Anything to keep my mind from drifting back to Ethan.
He, meanwhile, was putting on a show.
Grinning, flirting with the waitress just enough to get extra napkins, stealing someone’s soda when they weren’t looking. If I hadn’t seen his reaction earlier, I might’ve actually believed him.
But there were cracks.
Between the jokes and the easy charm, I could still see it—that slight detachment, the way his focus drifted when he thought no one was watching.
I wanted to ask. Desperately.
But I didn’t.
By the time we got back on the road, the initial excitement had died down. The bus was quieter now—half the students were asleep, and the rest were too tired to keep up the chaos.
Ethan sat two rows ahead of me, his head tilted against the window, staring out at the passing landscape. He hadn’t spoken in a while.
He looked tired.
Not physically.
Not in the way you do after a long day of travel.
But the kind of tired that sits deeper, like he was holding something heavy and refusing to put it down.
I watched him for a moment, debating.
Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I reached over and nudged the back of his seat with my foot.
Nothing.
I tried again.
Still nothing.
Finally, without looking back, Ethan muttered, “What?”
I hesitated.
You okay? —too obvious. What was on your phone? —way too direct. I noticed you’re acting weird—nope.
So instead, I went with, “You good, man?”
He let out a quiet snort, shaking his head. “What, are you worried about me, Ghost Boy?”
“No,” I lied. “Just checking if you died or something.”
A beat of silence. Then—
“Still alive,” he said.
And that was the end of it.