There are over two million seconds in a month and it's been two months since Chloe has died. Warren gives Max space because he feels that's what she needs, but he keeps watch on her during their classes and makes sure someone else does when it's one they don't share. He picks up her assignments when she's not there, which is often, and drops them off at her door. He doesn't knock. Sometimes, he thinks he will, his fist clenched as it wavers in front of the door, but his hand always falls flat against his side again.

He is buried deep in homework, proofreading his horrible report for Ms. Grant's class, when he hears the creaking outside his door. He whirls around, expecting it to be one of the jocks trying to bribe him into writing essays for them. It's only the third time this week. But it's Max who stands at his doorway, hair disheveled and holding his hoodie close to her chest.

His breath catches; he's afraid that if it slips out, she will startle and run away. It's the first time he's seen her do anything besides walk to class and back to her dorm. He hasn't even heard her speak.

"I, uh, was returning your hoodie," she finally says, her voice hoarse as if she'd been crying.

He reaches for it then notices the death grip she has, the way her eyes sweep back and forth across his room as if she can't seem to focus on anything. His hand falls limply back down. "Actually, why don't you, you know, keep it for a while. Just in case," he rambles and he is an idiot, he is such an idiot, and it's almost as if she doesn't even hear him.

But then she nods, and she's gone, head down, shoes dragging on the carpet. Then there's just silence. He sighs and turns back to his report, but the words just swim before him. He crumples up a post-it note from his first draft and tosses it at the wall behind him. For a know-it-all, he feels too much like a failure lately. He wishes he has all the answers.