Adrian stood outside Marcus's apartment door, the box of journals clutched in his hands. His heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape his chest. He knew bringing them was wrong—they were Dante's private thoughts, his most vulnerable moments laid bare on paper. But Adrian needed Dante to know that he'd read them, that he finally understood.
He knocked.
Marcus answered, took one look at Adrian's face, and sighed. The sound was heavy, resigned, like he'd been expecting this but wished he hadn't been right.
"He's not here," Marcus said.
"What?"
"Dante. He left this morning."
Adrian felt the floor tilt beneath him. "Left? Where did he go?"
"His parents' place. He wanted to say goodbye before the transfer." Marcus leaned against the doorframe, his expression somewhere between sympathetic and exhausted. "He didn't tell you?"
"No." The word came out barely above a whisper. "He didn't tell me."
