Page 25 of Connor

I barely ate. Barely slept. Every time I tried to force something down, my stomach rebelled, leaving me hunched over the toilet, dry heaving until there was nothing left. It wasn’t just the nausea—it was the exhaustion, the weight pressing downon my chest, the constant feeling that I was standing on the edge of something I couldn’t see the bottom of.

I went to class, but I didn’t absorb a word. The professors’ voices turned into background noise, the scribbles in my notebook meaningless. The nausea came in waves—sometimes dull and manageable, other times sharp and unbearable. I tried to hide it, but I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone.

People noticed when you barely touched your food.

But no one said anything.

Maybe because I didn’t give them a reason to.

I was careful. Careful to sit in the back, careful to keep my head down, careful to pretend everything was normal even though I felt like I was falling apart.

And maybe I was.

Maybe I already had.

I needed air.

By the time Friday rolled around, my legs carried me out of the apartment before I could talk myself out of it. The air was crisp, the last traces of summer heat fading into something cooler. I wrapped my arms around myself as I walked, my sweater too thin for the slight bite in the wind.

I didn’t know where I was going until I was already there.

The diner sat on the corner of the street, its neon sign buzzing faintly in the early evening light. I hadn’t been inside yet, but I’d passed it enough times to know it was always open, always warm, always smelled like sugar and coffee and something fried.

I hesitated for half a second before pushing the door open.

The bell jingled overhead, the scent of butter and cocoa wrapping around me instantly. The place wasn’t crowded—just a few people scattered in booths, nursing coffee cups, picking at plates of fries.

I let out a slow breath and made my way to the counter, sliding onto one of the stools.

A waitress in a blue apron wandered over, her brown curls piled on top of her head, a pen tucked behind her ear. She gave me a polite smile as she pulled out her notepad.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?”

My throat was dry. My stomach still twisted with nausea, but this—this was what I wanted.

“Hot chocolate,” I said, voice softer than I meant it to be. “With whipped cream, if you have it.”

Her smile warmed. “Best in town.”

She turned, grabbing a ceramic mug from the stack, and I let my hands rest on the counter, fingers tracing invisible patterns against the surface.

It had been days since I let myself breathe.

Days since I let myself stop thinking about the test sitting under my bathroom sink, about the clock ticking down inside my own body, about the decision I still couldn’t bring myself to make. But here, under the soft hum of diner music, with the murmur of conversation around me, and the smell of fried food and something sweet in the air—just for a second, I felt like maybe I could pretend.

Pretend that I was just a girl waiting for a drink. Not a girl carrying a secret too big for her to hold.

The moment shattered as soon as the door swung open.

I didn’t look up at first. I kept my eyes on the counter, fingers curling around the warm ceramic of my hot chocolate as the waitress handed it to me, letting the steam brush against my face.

“Thank you,” I murmured, already moving toward a quiet table in the corner.

The rich scent of cocoa and melted whipped cream should have been comforting. Should have been grounding.

But then I heard them.

A familiar laugh—low, a little rough around the edges. North. And then Quinn’s voice, light and teasing, as they stepped inside. My stomach clenched.

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