I still go to school the following morning, even though the packhouse barely slept and the night feels like it’s still clinging to my skin, because routine has become a kind of defiance for me and I refuse to let fear or grief decide what my days look like. The sky is pale and washed out when I wake, the light slipping through the windows like it’s unsure whether it’s welcome, and Axel is already sitting on the edge of the bed when I open my eyes, shoulders tense and jaw tight, exhaustion written into every line of him.
“You don’t have to go,” he says immediately, like he’s been waiting for me to wake just to say it.
“I do,” I reply, pushing myself upright and swinging my legs over the side of the bed, my body tired but my resolve steady. “If I stop now, everything stops.”
He watches me
