Chapter 7

The space beside me wasn’t just empty, it was cold.

I didn't open my eyes at first. I let my hand sweep across the expanse of the mattress, searching for the heat of him, the rhythm of his breathing, the friction of skin against skin that had settled between us just hours ago. My fingers met only the textured cotton of the duvet.

I lay still for a full minute before I moved. Staring at the ceiling. Listening.

He's in the kitchen. That was my first thought. He went to get water and he didn't want to wake me. That's what he's like.

That's Heath.

I pulled on my robe and went downstairs. My slippers made a lonely slap-slap sound against the hallway floor. The kitchen was exactly how I left it last night. Two mugs sat on the drying rack near the kettle. But there, draped over the arm of the sofa, was his coat —my coat, the cedar one.

“Heath.”

I called his name once. Softly, because I didn't want to sound like I was panicking.

“Heath?” Then again, louder.

No one answered.

Maybe he had an emergency, I reasoned, my fingers trembling as I gripped my phone, scrolling to his contact, And didn’t want to wake you.

Hey. You left your coat. I watched the two ticks. Grey. Not blue as they had for the past three months.

I should have asked him why he left. That was the right thing to do. The sensible one. You just don't promise heart and soul to someone and disappear. But I couldn't bring myself to say it. Not yet, it would make me seem small and I couldn't afford to show that right now.

I made coffee to calm myself down and tried to drink what little I could. Then, I ran a bath and got dressed in the bathroom because I couldn't bring myself to look at the bed.

By the time I reached the school gates, the texts were still grey.

~*~

The atmosphere at school hit me before I saw a single face.

Usually, the morning rush was a blur of slamming locker doors and the burst of a thousand overlapping conversations. Today, the sound was different. It was a low, jagged hiss.

There at the science block, a group of Year Elevens gathered, huddled together. As I walked closer, I saw two girls cutting across the courtyard faster than the cold required.

"I told you it wasn't real," I heard from the stairway. A girl's voice, sharp with satisfaction.

I didn't stop. I kept walking. I would ask Jo at break, find out whatever weekend drama had everyone spinning. I had enough of my own.

I turned the corner into the main corridor and my legs simply... stopped.

There were teachers at the far end of the hallway — three of them, in a cluster near the second set of pillars. Mr. Richard, Mrs. Davies, and Mr. Singh, all talking in low voices at a group of boys who had their backs to me.

One of those backs I knew. At the center of them stood a navy blazer. Broad shoulders. The same back of the chest I had cradled my head on at midnight.

But that wasn't what made me stop.

Between the two pillars, near the ceiling, stretched and hanging like a banner was my bed sheet.

The one I'd left bundled at the bottom of my bed when I got up this morning and it had already been gone. I hadn't registered it was gone, I hadn't looked, I'd been too busy checking every room for him. And there, in the center, was my jagged, rust-colored stain.

My legs stopped working. I wanted to scream, rush and pull it down before anyone else could see, but I couldn’t move. I just stared. At the theatrical display before and I felt the coffee I'd made this morning turing sharply in my guts.

It's not.

It can't be.

That's not—

But there is only so much that your eyes can deny.

Heath still had his back to me. One of the teachers had his arm, saying something to him. He wasn't looking around. He wasn't looking for me.

"Miss Hall," Mrs. Lauren, the front office secretary, stood at my elbow, her hand hovering near my arm but not quite touching me "Your presence is needed in Principal Stephen's office."

The coffee from this morning came all the way up to the back of my throat.

I looked at the sheet one more time. At the stain. Then I looked at Heath's back. He was already talking to Mr. Richard. He looked like a boy explaining a simple misunderstanding. He looked like a boy who hadn't just destroyed a girl's life.

My eyes were burning. I hated that I wanted to cry, pressing my nails into the palm of my hand, enough to surppress the pain, I started walking.