Kavinsky hasn't moved, hasn't slapped my hands away or shoved me, but I jerk back as if he punched me, not the other way round. Somehow, even though he didn't raise his voice, you need to stay away from me fills the air louder and clearer than so much of our argument, pushing any other sound out of the way, into the background somewhere. Maybe I made some kind of noise, tried to say something. It all dies in my throat.

I should have known that the only thing I'd manage would be making a bigger mess of things.

My hands fall limply onto the cold concrete under my knees. A second goes by, then another. I can't go home. I don't have a home, not beside Newt, who deserves better than everything that Kavinsky and I have put him through.

Shakily, I push myself to my feet, hovering where I'm standing and looking down at Kavinsky for another moment, longer than I should. I still don't want to leave him alone.

"Newt didn't send me," I repeat one more time, in a whisper. "Still, I know he wants you to be okay, too. No matter what."

With that, I turn to go.