Crossing the line
I can hear voices in the distance, the sound of a Frisbee hitting grass, but it’s like the whole campus has gone still, waiting.
She shakes her head, tucks her notebook tighter under her arm, and brushes past me, her stride clipped and fast. I watch her go, jaw clenched, a strange ache settling behind my ribs.
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The drive home is quiet except for the hum of my old car’s engine. I keep replaying her words, every one like a stone skipping across my thoughts.
By the time I pull into the driveway, the house lights are already glowing. Inside, Tyler is sprawled across the couch, controller in hand, blasting zombies on the TV. He doesn’t even look up when I toss my duffel against the wall.