58

I pick at my tray of food in the mess hall, pushing my salad around, completely distracted. Counting down the minutes before I can head upstairs, already on edge, unable to think about anything else despite telling myself I’m only making it worse. My nerves are already shot.

Meadow is keeping her distance, sat down the far end of the long table because she knows she won’t be able to hold it in if we sit close. She isn’t really doing a great job of acting natural either and I can almost taste her tension waving this way. I catch her eyes on me a couple of times, but she looks away quickly, as though we’ve had some sort of lover’s tiff and I wish she would stop before someone picks up on it. I think she’s the reason I’m on such high alert because she’s adding to my stress levels.