Eight months.
Griffin’s sister has been bringing me coffee for eight months.
Not just coffee.
The good kind, too, from the place two blocks over when the arena coffee tasted burnt. The extra napkin tucked under the lid because I always spill. The quiet seat beside me after bad practices when everyone else knew not to ask.
She knows I take cinnamon when I’m pretending I’m fine.
She knows I hate being asked if I’m okay.
She knows I’ll answer anyway if she sits down first and waits me out.
I let her learn me in pieces.
Worse — I liked that she did.
And I never once put the pieces together.
Oh.
Oh no.
Katarina is still talking. I can see her mouth moving. I smile and nod and make the sounds a person makes when they’re listening, but I’m absolutely not listening because my brain just did something I can’t undo.
It isn’t just that she’s Griffin’s sister.
It’s that I let her get close enough to know what kindness works on me.
That’s the part that hollows me out.
Because I do not do that.
I do not hand people the map and then act surprised when I recognize the road.
“Nova?”
“Sorry.” I look up. “Long day. Sorry — what were you saying?”
She looks at me for a second.
“Just that if something belongs to someone else,” she says, “they should hear it from you first.”
She squeezes my arm.
Walks away.
I stand there.
Griffin’s sister’s hand just touched my arm.
A hand I trusted.
I drink my coffee.
It tastes like nothing.
I find Jax in the equipment room. Re-taping his blocker. Thirteen wraps. He looks up when I come in. No recorder. No notebook.