The Wanderer's Despair

The morning light crept through the trees like a thief, pale and uncertain. Taye sat on a fallen log at the edge of the camp, his back to the others, watching the mist curl around the roots of ancient oaks. The air was cool, damp with the promise of rain, and the world smelled of wet earth and decay. He had not slept. His eyes felt raw, his limbs heavy, but he could not bring himself to lie down on the ground next to the others, to pretend that sleep was possible when every time he closed his lids he saw them—Trinity’s hand in Ryan’s, the way she tilted her head when she laughed at something he said, the secret glances they had exchanged for two years right under his nose.

He heard the rustle of a sleeping bag behind him, a low murmur of voices. Kheta and Justin were stirring, their voices hushed, careful. They knew he was awake. They had known everything, and they had said nothing. The thought burned in his chest like a hot coal, and he pressed his palm against his ribs as if he could hold it in.

“Taye?” Her voice was soft, hesitant. Trinity. He did not turn around. He heard her footsteps approach, the crunch of dried leaves, and then she stopped a few feet away. “You’ve been out here all night.”