need—” He looks around desperately, and for a second I think he might run despite being half an hour from campus. “I need to go home. Can we go home?” Pressure builds behind my eyes and ears, and I blink away the tears. I don’t want to startle or upset him further. I want him to be okay. He looks like he accidentally killed someone, not like he got a little too intense while making out. Something more is wrong. “Yes. Do you want me to drive?” “No.” He shakes his head, then dips his chin to his chest and wipes his eyes. “But I don’t think I can,” he whispers, voice small and broken, like a
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