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THIRTY EIGHT.

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Monet lay sideways on her bed, still in the wide-leg linen pants and ribbed tank she'd worn to her internship briefing that morning

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Monet lay sideways on her bed, still in the wide-leg linen pants and ribbed tank she'd worn to her internship briefing that morning. The blazer had been tossed over her desk chair. Her gold hoops lay on the nightstand beside her, forgotten.

Her phone was pressed to her chest like it could fill in the space Adelaide had left behind.

It couldn't.

The last message from Adelaide had come in at 11:42 a.m.:

Addy: Just finished the first student panel — it was amazing. Going into a faculty lunch now. Will text you after. I love you, okay?

That was six hours ago.

Six.

No follow-up. No voice note. No selfie. No "I miss you."

Monet had drafted three replies. Deleted all of them.

At first, she'd told herself Adelaide was just busy. She was busy. Touring Spelman with her mother, getting a taste of the place she might be calling home next year. It made sense. It was exciting.

And Monet hated it.

Not because she didn't want Adelaide to love Spelman. She did. It was perfect for her—legacy, community, purpose.

But Monet wasn't there to see her glow. To hold her hand during info sessions. To hear the tone in her voice when she said "I could see myself here."

And for someone like Monet, who lived in control, absence was unbearable.

The phone buzzed.

She lunged.

Instagram DM: Max Mercer sent a reel.

She sighed, rolling onto her back. "I'm losing it."

She opened her texts again.

Still nothing.

She typed something quickly, then paused. Her thumb hovered over the send button.

Monet: Are you okay? You've been kind of quiet today. I miss you.

She stared at it for a beat, then backspaced. Rewrote.

Monet: Hope Spelman's everything you wanted. Can't wait to hear all about it.

Too formal. Too distant. She tried again.

Monet: Three days is a long time.

That stayed on screen for a long moment.

Finally, she hit send.

And immediately tossed the phone aside like it burned.

----

Camille stood at the espresso machine when she heard footsteps on the stairs. She turned to see Monet descending, barefoot, hair in a loose scarf, her eyes just slightly too red to ignore.

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