Chapter 32

The outtrip gets announced at breakfast.

“Alright!” the camp director  calls from the front, clapping his hands together. “Listen up—Saturday night into Sunday, we’ve got our full camp outtrip. Cabins are heading out by section, overnight, back tomorrow afternoon. Pack accordingly, don’t forget anything important, and yes—bugs will eat you alive if you don’t bring spray.”

Groans.

Cheers.

Someone yells, “Worth it!”

I barely react.

Outtrips are usually my favorite part of camp.

Now?

All I can think is:

no escape.

I don’t look at Quinn.

I don’t need to.

I can feel her somewhere across the dining hall anyway.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of packing lists, reminders, campers asking the same question five different ways.

“…Do we have to bring long sleeves?”

“…Yes.”

“…Even if it’s hot?”

“…Yes.”

“…What if—”

“…Yes.”

I’m running on autopilot.

By afternoon, we’re packing up.

Backpacks lined up outside cabins, sleeping bags rolled tight, bug spray already being passed around like currency.

The air smells like sunscreen and dirt and anticipation.

Everyone’s excited.

Except me.

“…You good?” Annabelle asks, tossing her bag down beside mine.

“…Yeah.”

She just looks at me.

“…You’re doing that thing again.”

“…What thing?”

“…Where you say you’re fine but your face says otherwise.”

I exhale.

“…I’m just tired.”

“…You’re not just tired.”

I don’t answer.

Because if I do—

I already know what’s going to happen.

And I don’t want that.

Not here.

Not now.

We start the hike out late afternoon.

The trail is uneven, packed dirt and roots cutting through the forest, the air cooler under the trees but still heavy. Campers are loud at first, energy high, voices echoing between the trunks.

Eventually, it settles.

Footsteps.

Branches snapping under shoes.

The rhythm of walking.

I fall into step with Annabelle, Emily, and Caitlyn toward the back.

Quinn is somewhere up ahead.

I don’t look.

I don’t want to know.

The campsite opens up near the lake, smaller than camp but quieter, more enclosed. A few fire pits, scattered clearings for tents, the water darker here, deeper.

We split into cabins, start setting up.

I keep moving.

Keep doing.

If I stop—

I’ll think.

And I don’t want to think.

It’s not until later—

after tents are set, after we ate dinner, after the campers are done getting ready for camp—

that when it hits.

We’re sitting in a loose circle near one of the tents.

Just us.

No campers.

Annabelle, Emily, Caitlyn.

Safe.

“…Okay,” Emily says quietly. “…you need to stop pretending.”

I laugh lightly.

Automatic.

“…I’m not pretending.”

“…Kennedy,” Caitlyn says gently.

That tone—

It cracks something.

“…I’m fine,” I say again.

My voice wavers.

Just slightly.

They all notice.

Of course they do.

“…No, you’re not,” Annabelle says softly.

And that’s it.

That’s all it takes.

Because suddenly I’m not holding it in anymore.

It hits fast.

Sharp.

“…I don’t get it,” I say, my voice breaking before I can stop it. “…I don’t get how it went from—”

I stop.

My throat tightens.

“…From what?” Emily asks quietly.

I shake my head.

“…From something,” I manage. “…To nothing.”

And then—

I’m crying.

Not pretty.

Not controlled.

Just—

real.

I hate it immediately.

I turn away, wiping at my face.

“…This is so stupid—”

“It’s not stupid,” Caitlyn says quickly.

“It is,” I shake my head. “…It’s literally just—camp—like why do I even care this much—”

“Because it mattered,” Annabelle says.

“…Yeah, well,” I laugh weakly, “…clearly not enough.”

Silence.

They don’t interrupt.

Don’t try to fix it.

They just sit there.

And that somehow makes it easier to let it out.

“…She just—switched,” I say. “…Like overnight. Like I imagined everything.”

“You didn’t,” Emily says firmly.

“I know,” I whisper. “…I just—don’t get why she couldn’t just—pick it.”

No one answers that.

Because there isn’t a good answer.

Eventually, it slows.

The crying fades into quiet.

Into that heavy, drained feeling after.

I wipe my face again, exhaling.

“…Okay,” I say. “…I’m good.”

“…You don’t have to be good,” Annabelle says.

“…I know. But I’m done crying.”

A small, tired laugh.

“…That was overdue,” Emily mutters.

“…Shut up,” I mumble.

They smile.

Soft.

It helps.

A little.

Later, when I stand up to head back toward my tent—

the air feels cooler.

Quieter.

I breathe in deeply.

Try to reset.

And then—

I see her.

Quinn.

Standing a little ways off.

Near the edge of the trees.

I don’t know how long she’s been there.

But she definitely saw me.

There’s no pretending she didn’t.

Her eyes meet mine.

And for the first time in days—

she doesn’t look neutral.

She looks—

worried.

Actually worried.

Her brows pulled slightly together, jaw tight, like she’s trying not to step forward.

We don’t say anything.

We just stand there.

Looking at each other.

My face is still warm, probably red, eyes puffy.

There’s no hiding it.

She takes a small step forward.

Then stops.

Like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to.

I don’t move.

I don’t speak.

And after a second—

she doesn’t either.

She just nods the slightest bit.

Once.

Not dismissive.

Not distant.

Just—

acknowledging.

And then she looks away.

Gives me the out.

I take it.

Walk past her.

Back toward my tent.

Heart tight for a completely different reason now.

Because that look—

That wasn’t nothing.

Not even close.

The next day is worse.

Because now we’re all stuck together.

Hiking.

Packing up.

Moving as a group.

No space.

No distance.

And everything feels closer because of it.

The trail back is rougher.

Narrower.

More uneven.

I’m not paying enough attention.

That’s the problem.

My foot catches on a root.

Hard.

I stumble forward, trying to catch myself—

but I go down anyway.

My knee hits first.

Then my shin drags against something sharp.

Pain hits immediately.

Hot.

Sharp.

“…Shit—”

I push myself up quickly, brushing dirt off automatically.

“…You good?” someone calls.

“…Yeah,” I say. “…I’m fine.”

I’m not.

Blood’s already starting to show through the scrape along my leg.

Long.

Angry.

I try to ignore it.

Keep walking.

“…Kennedy, stop.”

My stomach drops.

I turn.

Quinn’s already moving toward me.

“…I’m fine,” I say quickly.

“…You’re not,” she replies.

Her tone—

different.

Not distant.

Not controlled.

Firm.

She crouches slightly, looking at my leg.

“…Sit,” she says.

“…I said I’m fine.”

She looks up at me.

“…And I’m saying sit.”

Bossy.

Familiar.

I hesitate.

Then—

I sit.

She grabs the first aid kit from someone nearby, already opening it.

Efficient.

Focused.

“…It’s not that bad,” I mutter.

“…It’s bleeding,” she says. “…So we’re cleaning it.”

I don’t argue again.

Her hands are careful.

Gentler than I expect.

She pours water over the scrape.

It stings.

“…Ow—”

“…Yeah,” she says quietly. “…I know.”

Her fingers steady my leg just slightly as she cleans it.

Not lingering.

Just enough.

But it’s the first time she’s touched me in days.

And I feel it.

Of course I do.

“…You need to watch where you’re going,” she mutters.

“…Maybe if I wasn’t distracted—”

I stop.

She glances up.

“…By what?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“…Nothing.”

A beat.

She doesn’t push it.

Just keeps working.

“…You’re going to need to keep this covered,” she says after a second. “…It’ll get worse if you don’t.”

“…Okay.”

Silence.

Then—

quieter—

“…You should’ve told someone sooner,” she adds.

“…I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

She looks at me again.

“…You don’t have to do that.”

“…Do what?”

“…Act like everything’s fine when it’s not.”

That lands.

Because it’s not just about the scrape.

We both know that.

I swallow.

“…I’m good,” I say anyway.

She holds my gaze for a second.

Like she doesn’t believe me.

But she doesn’t argue.

Just nods.

“…Okay.”

But the way she said it—

It’s not agreement.

It’s restraint.

And as she finishes wrapping my leg—

I realize something.

We’re not back to where we were.

Not even close.

But we’re not nothing either.

And that?

Might be worse.

Because now—

everything feels like it’s just sitting there.

Waiting.

For one of us to finally break first.