She doesn’t comeout of her room for three days.
Well. She goes to school. But then she vanishes upstairs immediately after.
I’ve been tracking it. Can’t help it.
Day one: She went upstairs at 3:47 p.m. Didn’t come down. I listened for sounds until 11:23 p.m. before forcing myself to sleep.
Day two: 3:51 p.m. Four minutes later than the day before. Is that significant? Does it mean she’s lingering downstairs longer? Does that mean she’s warming back up to us?
Day three: 3:44 p.m. Earlier. That’s bad. That’s worse.
I have the times written in my notebook. Three entries. Odd numbers are never lucky. I should wait for a fourth day to even it out, but?—
No. Stop.This is not normal behavior. This is obsessive.
But I can’t stop checking.
She barely eats at all, from what I can tell. I don’t know where she spends lunch—not with my friends and me anymore. She basically stops talking on the rides to and from school, even to Marie. Just shoves her earbuds in and stares out the window like I’m an Uber driver.
It’s clear this is how she’s chosen to handle her last week here—complete withdrawal.
Like that night between us never happened.
I start leaving plates of food outside her door, and get ridiculously excited when they reappear empty.
Leave the plate at 6:00 p.m. exactly. Check at 7:00 p.m., 8:00 p.m., 9:00 p.m. Three checks. If the plate’s still there at 9:00 p.m., I leave it overnight and check at 6:00 a.m. before school.
Tuesday: Plate gone by 8:00 p.m. She ate. Good. Wednesday: Plate gone by 9:00 p.m. She ate. Good. Thursday: Plate still there at 9:00 p.m. Gone by 6:00 a.m. Friday. She ate. Eventually. Still good.
Is there a pattern? There’s not enough data yet to establish one.
Maybe it’s pathetic. But I don’t know how to turn off caring about someone, even if they’re trying to turn off their feelings.
Because I felt it that night. It’s not just me she wants. She wants all of it. This place. Our family. How we make her feel at home here. Yeah, it’s twisted that I’m her stepbrother, but I can worry about that later once I make sure she’s… well, once I make sure she’sokay.
I don’t think she is right now.
Sox has been spending more time in my room than Harper’s the past three days. The cat will scratch at Harper’s door, meow plaintively when she doesn’t get let in, then pad into my room through the bathroom like I’m the consolation prize.
I’ve been feeding Sox on Harper’s schedule—7:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m., exactly—because someone has to. Because if Harper really does leave in four days, Sox will be mine. Because if I maintain Sox’s routine, maybe it means Harper will be okay, too.
Rule #896: Taking care of someone’s cat is taking care of them by proxy.
That’s not a real rule. That’s me losing my mind.
But I wrote it down anyway.
Sox is curled on my bed right now, purring. I keep glancing at her, wondering if she knows something I don’t. If Harper fed her this morning. If Harper’s even okay in there.
The cat won’t tell me.
But I keep asking anyway.
I suspect she’s so die-hard for her friends, she feels like shehas no choiceexceptto go back and marry Z, no matter what. She’s stubborn as fuck. And she doesn’t see her own value, so she doesn’t care ifher futuregets thrown away in her mission to save her best friend.
She doesn’t care if it means she loses the father who’s trying to make amends, or the mother whowantsto giveher all the mothering and love she never had from the woman who actually gave birth to her.
She doesn’t care if it means losing… me.