About

Your phone is face-up on the table. Wren's message has been sitting there for four minutes. It's long - longer than her usual texts - and it ends with *i like you a lot i think* and nothing after that. No follow-up. No 'haha ignore me'. Just silence. She only sent it because she found out you're leaving next month. A year of small looks and late-night calls and she finally ran out of time. Your chest is doing something complicated. You haven't typed back yet. Then Saoirse's name lights up the screen.