I curl my fingers around my phone and look at the time. It flashes 19:22 p.m. It’s been about eight hours since I’ve come back home; eight hours since I haven’t seen Mace; eight hours since I haven’t spoken to him. Which is good. So, why am I feeling this ache in my heart? Why do I want to hear his voice, see his face and drown in his scent? Why? Sighing, I sit upright on my bed, my feet dangling. If I sit here in my room alone, my mind will keeping thinking about him, even though I don’t want to. I shove my feet into my sneakers and walk across my room to the window. I bite my lip, a fleeting thought crossing my mind: Will he come for me again if I risk my life?
I glance at my phone again, thinking. Should I call him? I swipe to unlock and click on his contact, my thumb hovering over th
