Veronica Roth

A Divergent Story Collection

Four

Grace Sinks

For some reason, my first thought is her, her wide eyes staring at me from the recesses of my memory.

"It's over," I say, wincing — she punches harder than she realizes. I ignore the pain and run a hand over her hair. because I'm stupid, and inappropriate, and stupid…

Then she slips her fingers between mine, and I stare at her, startled. I squeeze her hand, lightly, and it registers through my turmoil and my exhaustion that though I've touched her half a dozen times-each one a lapse in judgment-this is the first time she's ever done it back. 

Then she turns and runs to catch up with her friends. 

And I stand in the hallway, alone, grinning like an idiot. 

One thing I know: For helping me forget how awful the world is, I prefer her to alcohol.

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