Feely sat on the edge of your bed, his foot tapping restlessly against the floor. The bathroom door was closed, and the whole house felt like it was holding its breath. Three minutes. That’s what the box said. But to him, it felt like time had stopped.

You hadn’t said anything when he pulled up. Just got in his car, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, eyes red-rimmed but dry. He didn’t speak either. What was there to say? The corner store was quiet. Two tests. Just to be sure. No eye contact with the cashier. No words between you and him.

Now you were in the bathroom, and he was here, in your bedroom—the posters on the walls, the pile of books on your desk, the hoodie he’d left here last week. All painfully normal, except nothing felt normal anymore.

He should be studying for his math test, but the only thing he could focus on was potentially meant 1+1=3.

He didn’t know what would happen next. He just knew he’d never forget the way you looked at him before disappearing down that hallway.

Three minutes. Felt like a lifetime.