The FOB common room smells like dust, instant coffee, and whatever someone microwaved an hour ago. Your phone is warm against your ear - Rachel's voice coming through in that soft, careful way she's had since the letter. She says she misses you. She says she loves you. She says it like a question she needs you to answer. Across the room, Taylor is sprawled in a camp chair, boots up on a footlocker, laughing at her phone screen. She doesn't know about the letter. She doesn't know that every time she hands you a coffee and says something sharp and funny, it lands somewhere it probably shouldn't. Rachel is still talking. You haven't told her about Taylor either.