72 Hours of You

Chapter Forty-Seven

Forty-Seven

THAT NIGHT I SEND PETER A STRING of desperate, weepy DMs that, upon further review, make me want to throw both my phone and myself into a river.

By the time Friday morning rolls around I’m fully on edge. I hit three curbs while psychotically scanning for his car in the parking lot, making Jules spill her PSL all over her new jeans. Twice.

But Peter never shows up.

And then in the middle of chem I decide if he doesn’t have to be here, then neither do I. Because, really, what’s even the point?

Fuck this.

Fuck me.

Fuck everything.