The door to my bedroom opens with a screech. Cara strolls in and perches on my bed next to where I'm curled into a tight ball.

Doctor Jennings once told me we have what it takes inside us to put up a fight. To fight for our future. Our dreams. Our families. But sometimes, life gets overwhelming, and people give up. I've never felt so close to throwing in the towel.

Sebastian’s betrayal was the last straw, but he's only a part of the problem. It's about my father, Mav, and my mother, whose invisible presence haunts every corner of my childhood bedroom the way it’s haunted my memory since she passed.

“He left, didn't he?” I ask, knowing the answer. I heard him leave and returned to my room as soon as I could.

Cara kicks off her slippers and lies on my bed by my side. “He did. No man is worthy of your tears, Tarita.”

“It hurts so much, Cara.”

“The jock had tears in his eyes. I'd say whatever he did hurt him, but we don't care, right, Tarita?”

I slide my folded hands under my wet cheek. “He's not a jock. He's a nerd who loves working out.”

Cara whips her head so fast I can't help but laugh through tears.

“The Nerd? The one you said you'd never help?” Her round eyes grow ten times bigger.

“Come on, laugh at me. I grant you permission,” I mumble. “Never say never, I guess.”

Cara looks at the white ceiling as if it holds answers and rubs her chin. “When I was in high school, nerds looked different. They didn't have…” She clears her throat. “Assets like that.”

I snort. “Assets?”

A smirk tilts a corner of Cara’s mouth up. “Asses, Tarita. Asses you want to grab and squeeze.”

I chuckle, but it feels as if a thousand needles relentlessly prick at my heart. I wish everything between us boiled down to the physical stuff, but it's his dimpled smile, his warm eyes, and the way he frowns when he's sketching or studying. It's him softly biting my neck and drawing first-grade level doodles on my skin. It's the delicious pancakes he makes for me and the blanket he covers me with before we fall asleep.

It's always the little things, and it kills me to think they weren't real.

I roll onto my back and pat the comforter, looking for Cara’s hand. When I find it, I thread my fingers through hers. “I asked him why he used to hate me, and he kept quiet.”

“Maybe he didn't hate you, then.”

Or there are more things he doesn't tell me. More secrets. “We're roommates too,"I say. "I can't go home to him.”

“This is your home, Tarita.” Cara’s voice grows softer with each word. “I know it hasn't been the same since Inger died, but I'm here. I'm always here for you. Do you want to tell me what happened with Sebastian? He said he texted you, and you didn't answer.”

I study Cara’s face. It barely has any wrinkles, and the youthful gleam never left her eyes, but she's fifty-two. She's been working with us for almost two decades. Cara loves me as if I were her daughter, but if my father is guilty of whatever they think he did, what will happen to her? To this house? To the rest of the staff?

“I'll tell you everything,” I say, sitting up. “But I need to call Kenny first.”

***

Kenny's tiny two-bedroom apartment in a quiet area downtown feels like safe haven. It's also where I've hidden to lick my wounds a handful of times.

When I called him, he didn't demand explanations; he just waited for me and gave me a tight hug when I crossed the threshold at six a.m., red-eyed and exhausted after the sleepless night.

I gave him the key to my place and asked him to bring some stuff of mine so I wouldn't risk running into Sebastian before I'm ready to be reasonable and listen to him.

If he wants to talk.

The front door opening jostles me out of my daze. I've managed to doze off on the couch, but the constant swirl of disturbing thoughts didn't let me get quality sleep.

"You'll have to trust my fashion sense." Kenny rolls my suitcase into the living room and leaves it by the coffee table. "I did my best, considering Seb arrived home before I could grab more things."

I prop myself up, leaning against the cushions. "Seb?"

"Bast," Kenny says. "The guy's a fucking mess. I thought he'd cry in front of me."

A painful pang pierces my chest as if his pain were mine. As if he weren't to blame for my tears.

Kenny sighs. "Tara…What exactly did he do?"

"Nothing.  And that's what hurt me the most. You don't mind me staying with you for a few days, do you?"

Kenny sits by my side. "I've told you my house is yours many times. Just… talk to me when you're ready, okay? Don't hold it in."

I consent with a nod. My cell buzzes on the low table, and when I see who's calling, I let it ring.

Drew insists. What the hell is wrong with me? I've never been the kind to ghost my friends because of a guy.

I breathe in and out, hoping my voice sounds calm as I answer, "Hi."

"Tara," Drew says. "Baby girl, I'm sorry. They just called Connor, and his girl…Your friend Sadie's dead."

I slide the phone down and press it to my neck. Drew says something else. Something about a murder. Kenny crouches before me and grabs my wrists, gently shaking them.

I sob. The cell drops to the carpet, and Kenny wraps me in his arms, whispering words of reassurance while I try to breathe through the onslaught of tears.

***

What happened to Sadie shook everyone at Bartley University. Her death was unfair. Absurd. Undeserved.

I hid in the toilet and cried my eyes out after seeing Connor sob at the gym, surrounded by the guys the day we learned the news.

Three days passed, and it's no better today. Connor looks just as miserable, and guilt holds my heart in a vice grip because she called me on the same day she died, and I didn't answer, too busy worrying about Bast’s possible betrayal.

I'll never know what she needed. We won't gossip about guys and the latest fashion trends. She won't become a doctor like she dreamed.

Wetness gathers in my eyes. I wipe them with the back of my hand, forgetting I'm in Ethics. I'm sitting in the back of the lecture hall far from Bast, while he's in our usual spot.

As if sensing I'm thinking about him, he turns his head and looks at me.

I lower my eyes to the blank page of my notebook. Time crawls until the lecture is finally over, and I haphazardly shove my stuff into my bag.

"Tara."

His voice. His smell. His hand on my cheek. I should tell him not to touch me, but I feel too weak.

Bast caresses my face with reverence as if he's touching me for the first time.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "How are you?"

I ignore the way every nerve ending of mine comes to life from Bast's simple touch.

"I'm not dead, so I guess I'm just fine," I say.

"Nobody's fucking fine." Bast removes his hand. "I know I fucked up, but I miss you. I miss you all the time, and I want you back. You don't have to go through this shit alone. You have me, Tara. You have all of me. Always have, always will."

Fresh tears leak from my eyes. "I can't." I choke, putting my oversized purse in front of me like a shield.

Bast nods, wetting his lips. "Okay. Take your time. I'll wait."

He wipes my tears with his thumbs, turns, and jogs down the steps toward the lecture hall exit. I wait and do the same.

***
Once at Kenny's, I sit on the bed in his spare bedroom and take out my notebooks. Everything seems pointless — studying, working, writing articles for the blog. What used to make me excited doesn't feel good anymore.

I flip the Ethics notebook open, and a paper rectangle stares at me from the page.

It's not a sunset, but something equally memorable. A couple is roller skating, their hands intertwined.

I pick up the notebook and turn it upside down. More postcard-sized charcoal sketches rain down on the gray comforter.

A couple is hugging next to a lighthouse. The same two are sitting on a roof, staring at the sky, then talking in a car in another sketch.

And there are two sketches of me in class.

Something about them feels different. I pick them up and inspect them, noticing the date written in blue ink.

A year ago.

My hair was a bit shorter. The lecture hall is where we had our Philosophy class. I recognize the seats and the desks because they're older than those in the rest of the classrooms.

"Tara."

Kenny knocks on the door, and I leave the sketches on the bed. "Come in."

He enters the room, and his gaze zeroes in on the mess of notebooks on the bed. "Studying?"

I rub my palms over my face. "I wish. I can't focus for shit."

"Did you eat anything?"

When I shake my head, Kenny flops on the bed next to me and wraps me in his arms. "Can I feed you?"

"No. A bit of fasting won't kill me. I'm not hungry. I tried, but I want to puke from the sight of food."

Kenny narrows his eyes. I punch his stomach. "No. We always used condoms. And I'm on the pill. Relax."

He kisses my cheek. "Okay. Did you talk to Sebastian?"

"Kind of." I free myself from Kenny's hug and lie back. "Look at those little sketches. See the ones of me? That was last year when he asked the professor not to pair me up with him. Why would you draw someone you hate?"

"Why would he hate someone like you? You're like a little sun. Warm and tender and sensitive."

I grab a pillow and smack Kenny with it. "Shut up. That's not me, Kenneth."

Kenny hums, picking up the drawings. He studies them one by one, smirking.

"Your love story in chronological order? An artist always writes the date. See this?" He points to the bottom right corner of each sketch. "Different dates. Different pens. Different pencils. I'd say he was so smitten he drew after each date you two had. But where are the sexy times, Atla?"

My glare makes Kenny chuckle.

"Those are too explicit to draw, I guess," I say.

"Or maybe he has his private collection. I'd have one for sure."

Kenny gathers the sketches and puts them on top of my pink notebook. "Maybe he cares way more than you think. Maybe he's not Ian."

"I'm not an idiot. I know Bast is different. I just can't…I don't want to settle. I don't want to be roommates with benefits. If he wanted to be with me for real, he would have told me. I just feel something is holding him back."

Kenny cocks his head, observing me in that intense way of his that doesn't fail to make my cheeks warm. "You're probably right. But most men aren't big on words. Maybe the lovey-dovey sketches are his way of gathering the courage he needs to talk to you. The question is, are you ready to do the same?"

I was ready before everything went to hell. I trusted him like I didn't think I'd trust anyone, but it wasn't enough.

"I think I just want to be loved," I say when Kenny stands, ready to leave the room. "Not pitied. Loved."