5.

Elizabeth knocked on the door. While she waited, she stared down the darkened hallway, breaths coming heavy after having run up the three flights of stairs; the circular light on the wall at the far end was dead, but occasionally it flickered, brief spasms of life that somehow made the hallway seem darker still.

From inside the apartment came the thud of footsteps, a crash and a cuss (after which the footsteps' rhythm turned to an uneven hobble), then the rattle of the door chain against its track.

The door swung open, revealing Henry, hair disheveled, eyes wide and white with panic. "Are you okay? Is everything all right? We're supposed to meet at your dorm."

"Everything's fine." She gave him a smile that was supposed to be breezy but felt forced, an ache to sustain. "I was up early, so I thought I'd come over, meet you here."

His panic ebbed, but the relief that washed in to take its place was tinged with wariness; it looked like he was debating whether or not to probe into why she was up earlier than usual, why their 5 a.m. run was now closer to 4 a.m, why making her way to his place alone in the dark was preferable to waiting for him to arrive.

Before he had time to settle that debate and ask the question, she said, "My roommate was talking in her sleep again."

The wariness remained.

He didn't say anything though, just stepped back and held the door open. "Come in. I'll just be a minute getting dressed."

While Henry headed back to his bedroom, she ran through a series of stretches behind the couch. She focused on tightening her abs, on the pull of each stretch, on counting the seconds as they passed—and if her mind threatened to slip, she dragged it back to the present with her nails cutting half-moons into her palms.

When Henry returned, he was dressed in grey sweatpants and sweatshirt, a black beanie, and plain white sneakers.

Elizabeth held onto the back of the couch to steady herself as she eased out of a lunge. "Do you need to warm up?"

"No," Henry said. "I'll just take the first mile easy."

Taking it easy didn't sound appealing. What she needed was a pace that would leave no room for thought, that would leave no room for anything in her consciousness except for the burn in her legs and lungs. But nor did she want to wait around.

While she stood in the corridor, waiting for Henry to lock up, she removed her fleecy sweater and tied it in a double knot around her waist, leaving her in just a short-sleeved UVA orientation tee.

Henry pocketed his key and turned to face the corridor. When he saw her, he paused. He eyed her. "Won't you be cold?"

She shrugged, forcing that breezy smile once more. "I thought the cold was supposed to be good for you."

Good for her or not, she didn't care. The freezing air would distract her, would consume her mind with the way that it burned.

oOoOo

By the time they finished the full six miles, her saliva was thick and tasted like pennies and her hands had passed burning cold and reached painfully numb—there was no way she'd be able to insert her key into the lock and open the door to her dorm room, but with dawn no more than a rumour on the horizon, her roommate wouldn't be up to let her in, so risking chilblains by thawing her hands on a radiator was probably in order.

When they reached the entrance to Hancock, Henry stopped and turned to face her. He was still catching his breath, and his skin glistened with sweat in the orangey glow of the lantern that hung over the door. "I'll head back and grab a shower, then what do you say to breakfast? Waffles at Sally's? My treat."

"I can't today," she said. "I need to hit the library."

The wary look he'd worn earlier reemerged. But, once again, he didn't say anything—or at least not what was on his mind.

Instead, he gave her a smile that seemed lacking, a twitch at the lips, not enough to wipe the concern from his eyes. "Sure, no problem. I'll see you there later?"

"Sure," she said, and before he had a chance to reconsider, to say what he kept on not saying, she ducked inside.

oOoOo

The next morning, Elizabeth arrived even earlier, and they went through the same routine: knocking on the door, dragging Henry out of bed, running till she couldn't think for the way her legs and lungs screamed, hitting the library, cramming so much information into her brain that everything else was forced to the fringe, then finally retreating to her bedroom and feigning sleep…until another bedroom began to bleed in from the edges: silver-blue shards of moonlight, the thump of music downstairs, Charlie—

oOoOo

Elizabeth ran up the three flights of stairs, taking the steps two at a time. The corridor on Henry's floor was dark, like usual, but from beneath Henry's door seeped a dim yellow light.

She knocked.

Five seconds later, enough time for Henry to stand up and walk over from the couch, the door opened.

Henry had brushed and styled his hair today—perhaps he'd anticipated another early arrival and had adjusted his alarm clock accordingly—but rather than putting on his sweatsuit and sneakers ready for their run, he'd dressed in khakis and a blue plaid shirt.

She looked him up and down. A teasing smile quirked the corners of her mouth. "You're gonna struggle to keep up, if that's what you're planning on wearing."

"I'm not going for a run."

Her smile fell. "Why not? …Did you injure yourself?"

If he couldn't run, she'd have to run alone. But running alone meant terror waiting for her in every rustle, in every shadow. The only other option was not to run. But if she didn't run…

"No," he said, "but—"

"Then, go get changed." She stepped into the apartment and shooed him towards his bedroom. She would stretch while she waited for him to get ready (and for her panic at the thought of not being able to run to subside).

With one hand holding onto the top of the couch, she gripped her ankle and stretched out her quads. Behind her, the door shut with a snick, but no pad of footsteps followed.

"You can't keep doing this," Henry said.

She let go of her ankle, and slowly turned to face him. He stood in front of the door, a concerned frown creasing his brow.

"Doing what?" She tried to play it cool, but her pulse was heavy, its thud echoing through her head.

"Running six miles in the dark every morning, studying non-stop, doing whatever you can to block out what happened."

"Nothing hap—"

"Pretending nothing happened."

She wanted to protest, to insist nothing happened, to steer them away from this conversation and back to their run, to run run run until there was no space in her mind for anything other than her body's cries for oxygen, but with a stern look he silenced her.

Her jaw tightened, her lips pursed.

He held her gaze. "I'm trying my best to support you, to give you space to process, but I can't sit back and watch you destroy yourself." He shook his head. "I can't be a part of it." He stilled; fear and sorrow stained his eyes. "I care about you too much."

She swallowed, her throat tight.

Maybe it wasn't only herself she was hurting.

"What if I'm not ready to talk about it?" she said.

He strode past her, heading for the desk on the opposite side of the room. "Then write about it."

She pivoted, gaze tracking him as he walked. "What if I don't know what to write?"

He returned with a notebook—a pocket notebook, like the one he carried with him wherever he went. "Then write that." He held the notebook out for her. "Write anything. But you have to do something, because this isn't working, and I'm afraid what's going to happen to you if you carry on down this path."

She stared at him, then at the notebook. Part of her wanted to shove it aside. Talking was unnecessary, writing was unnecessary, nothing—nothing!—happened. But another part of her knew what he said was true: she couldn't keep doing this. She was exhausted. Her body ached all the time. She was trying her best to keep the thoughts, the memories out, but still they found her: they lurked in every unoccupied moment, they ambushed her in her sleep. But more than what it was doing to her, she worried what it was doing to her friendship with Henry. Self-destruction was one thing, but if what happened to her caused her to lose him…

She stared at the notebook a moment longer, then reached out and took it. When she looked up at Henry, he simply nodded.

"I'll make us some coffee," he said.

oOoOo

Elizabeth sat on the couch, black ballpoint pen in hand, notebook balanced in her lap. She tried to write out what happened. At first it came in jumbled shards, just like her memories, but once all the pieces were down on paper, she was able to shuffle them in her mind, to rewrite them into a coherent story.

Story…

She wished it were a story. She wished she could close the notebook, walk away, and surrender it to the mental graveyard of once-read fiction. But this thing had happened, this unspeakable thing had happened, and writing it out wasn't going to change that; it was only the first step in coming to terms with reality.

She put down the pen.

The sky had gone from dark to light to dark again, though she hadn't noticed the time passing.

Henry sat in the armchair opposite, watching over her, just as he had that night. "You don't have to tell me what happened, if you don't want to. Everything you've written is yours, and only you get to decide whom you share it with and when."

Elizabeth stared at the notebook in her lap, its spine now cracked, its pages now rumpled. "I want to tell you," she said. No. She shook her head, setting her ponytail trembling. "I need to." Needed to know she was still able to place her trust in someone, that that hadn't been taken from her as well. "But I'm scared."

"Scared of what?" he said, a frown in his voice.

She met his gaze. Her lips tugged into something too sad to be called a smile. "Scared you won't see me the same."

His frown faded and his expression softened. "You are the strongest, smartest, most incredible person I know." He paused. A smile tweaked at his lips. "And you're my best friend. I promise you there's nothing you can tell me that will ever change that."

The look in his eyes was the definition of sincerity.

It silenced any doubt she had about telling him.

She nodded.

"Okay."

And she handed him the notebook.