Adrian's side of the dorm room looked bare, skeletal. Boxes stacked neatly by the door, his desk cleared of everything except his laptop, his bed stripped down to the mattress. He'd requested a single room for spring semester—couldn't stomach the idea of some stranger moving into Dante's space, sleeping in Dante's bed, existing where Dante had existed.
He sat on the floor, taping up the last box, when he noticed something under Dante's bed. A cardboard box, half-packed, shoved far back against the wall like Dante had started packing and then abandoned it.
Adrian knew he shouldn't look. Knew that whatever was in there wasn't meant for his eyes.
He pulled it out anyway.
Inside were notebooks. Dozens of them. Different colors, different sizes, all labeled with years written in Dante's precise handwriting. 2014. 2016. 2019. 2022. 2024.
Journals.
