BRYCE
I'm trying to read about the French Revolution when someone shouts my name across the quad. My head snaps up and for one terrifying second, I think it's her but it's Mira and she is running toward me across the grass, blonde ponytail swinging, face set in an expression I know too well. The one that means she's worried and trying not to show it.
"Mira?" I stand up, my textbook forgotten. "What are you doing here?"
She reaches me, then stops, and takes one long look at my face.
"Oh my god. You look terrible." She exclaimed. Her hands reached forward to cup my face before letting me go
"Thanks?" I try to smile. It probably looks as fake as it feels. She sits on the bench, pats the space next to her. When I sit, she grabs my face in both hands again, but this time, it was the same way she used to when I was little and she was checking for fever.
"You've lost weight." Her voice is tight. "You're not sleeping. Your eyes are—Bryce, what's going on?"
