It’s a quiet two weeks.

Midterms rear their morbid hear, preying upon unsuspecting students as they stumble into class, lulled into complacency by the fleeting embrace of their vacation. When thinking about the demon, students are said to crumble to the floor as tears drip from eyes, they struggle to keep open, regretting the absence of strategic planning amidst the chaos. It is something to fear, but it seems so far until you stand outside the classroom, heart beating like a Congo drum.

It’s closing hours and of course, the only two employees, overseen by their manager, left to close the rustic doors for the night are Leah and Sam. Every time a sound is made, they both glance at one another for a moment before returning. Sam holds a stack of flashcards in his palm, sweeping crumbs into a pile while reciting facts under his breath. His jaw is tense and his brows are knit together as he flips a light blue card over, bites his lip, and returns it to the back of the pile. He turns away, to the wall, sweeping a corner with only a minuscule amount of dirt.

She aches for the silence to be broken.

She aches for Michelle to help her, but she’d made her stance as clear as a nearby star in the cloudless night.

She aches for them to be what they were before Will and before the party.

Leah clears her throat, standing up as straight as she can and projecting her voice. “S-Sam?” Sam looks at her for a moment before looking back at the small pile he’d swept up. “What are you studying for?”

He sighs. “English 3.”

Her face brightens. “What do you read at Summit?”

He scoffs. “Hamlet, Grapes of Wrath, and Huckleberry Finn.”

“Riveting.” It isn’t a complete lie. Of course, Hamlet was a dramatic masterpiece and she considered herself a thespian, so of course, she’d enjoy it more.

She wipes off one last, pristine mug and places it next to the countless porcelain rows before walking over. “Hey, Sam.”

“What?” he snaps.

“I’ll help you study. It’s not like I have anything to do.”

“Don’t you need to go hang out with Will or something?” His voice is a knife that stings far more than an offhand comment about “How she couldn’t have ended up with Will without any strings attached.”

“I’m not just his girlfriend, a—hole.” It shut him down for a moment, as his hands wavered.

“Yeah. I know.” He doesn’t need to say it, but he continues. “It’s not your fault that I got drunk. But it’s my fault I came and… I think it’s better this way.”

“How could you say that?” Her voice chokes as if a noose had fastened around her neck. His eyes seem to be mesmerized by the two hands ticking. After a few, tense minutes, as she crosses her arms and clicks her nails against each other, he shifts and looks up. He spins on his heel silently, leaning the broom against the corner.

“I’m sorry.” Sam flinches. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Leah sighs before picking up her phone, a plan formulating in her mind.