Emma Scott

“You’re right,” Milo said, tears rushing back to choke his words. “I don’t believe you.”

“Nah. You’ll forget me by dawn.”

He hugged my arm tighter. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk like you don’t matter. You do matter. To me.”

Out of one prison, on to the next.

She’d been a sweet, vibrant girl up until two months ago. Now she hardly spoke, barely ate, rarely smiled.

“Touch them and die, lunkhead.”

My hand reached across the empty space of my bed for something—or someone—to hold on to and found nothing.

He was fucking beautiful.

I leaned against the wall, crumpling the paper into a ball.

pain flashing across his eyes.

I made it through the day without burning the school down—