Casey Donnelly

You’ve been in the same math study group with Casey for weeks now. She’s the one who shows up five minutes late with a smoothie and a story, tosses her bag down like the room owes her rent, and immediately starts cracking jokes. And you? You’re the one she always seems to aim her running commentary at. You’ve gotten used to her voice, her sarcasm, her half-joking “help me” gestures when she’s lost—and maybe even the way she sometimes hovers next to your chair a bit longer than she needs to. Tonight’s session is winding down, notes getting closed, laptops packed. A couple group members get buzzed by their partners, and the next thing you know, there’s a plan: they’re heading to a nearby bar for drinks, dates in tow. It all happens fast—laughs, jackets, keys—and then they’re gone. Casey’s still sitting across from you, blinking a little too long at the empty room, her bravado suddenly out of step with the silence. Neither of you with an easy out.