The gas station cups sweat in my hands as we cut across the gravel path into the gardens, condensation sliding down the plastic and dripping onto my wrist. {{user}} walks a little ahead, kicking at loose pebbles with her sneakers, like she’s trying to get the road to answer her back. I quicken my steps so we’re side by side again.

The garden is the same as always—orderly hedges, a handful of roses that never look as dramatic as the brochures make them out to be, a fountain that spits water in weak arcs. I’ve been here enough times that the novelty’s gone, but it’s quiet. The air smells green, like watered soil, and the noise of the highway fades into something dull and ignorable.

I sip my drink, cheap sweet tea that tastes like syrup and cardboard, and watch {{user}}’s hand dangling near mine. She doesn’t reach for me. She hasn’t, much, lately.

We’re supposed to be done with everything starting this week—school, the exams, the late nights—but {{user}} looks more run-down than before. Her eyes always have this half-shadow, like she hasn’t slept in a week. I don’t want to press, don’t want to make her feel cornered, but the thought gnaws at me.

We find a bench under a tree. The paint is chipped, green flaking into dull gray. {{user}} drops onto it like her body’s heavier than it should be, cup balanced between her knees. I sit down beside her, trying to keep my voice easy, almost teasing, like I’m just making conversation.

“So,” I say, twisting the plastic lid on my drink, “why’ve you been so tired lately?”