Jake and my reunion comes about slower. Much slower.
Every day I spend without talking to him cuts deep, but I can tell it's cutting him too. And the longer we stay silent, the more I see my words niggling him.
On Saturday, when the evening news spits out a piece on the under-representation of men seeking mental health advice, Jake turns an uncomfortable shade of red and leaves the room; the next Wednesday, when Sylvia gets back from his therapy session, she pulls me aside and says he talked to his therapist for two minutes before leaving that day; and on Sunday afternoon, I come downstairs to find him at the kitchen table, crouched over the computer and googling 'how to be happy'. He slammed the computer shut before I could see more. But that bold headline had been enough.
None of these events individually seem promising, but I double down on my isolation from him, hoping it'll encourage him further.
And it does.
It takes two weeks of please-forgive-me smiles and awkward side-shuffling in the corridors and kitchen, before finally, Jake caves.
It's Wednesday evening, only nine days before our much-anticipated ball, and I'm sitting on the living room couch, trying to understand mathematical transformations with the TV on in the background and Jake hovering in the kitchen.
He's been there for a few minutes now, watching me. I don't think he realises I know, so I pretend to remain oblivious, completing question after question without looking up, but then he moves forward and perches on the coach beside me.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
I'm scared that if I meet his gaze, he'll change his mind and walk off again so I keep my head down.
"Maths."
"Do you want some help?"
I shrug and Jake grabs the pencil from my hand and pulls the textbook onto his lap. He scribbles something in it and hands it back.
"There. Now you're moving it vertically instead of horizontally."
"Thanks."
We fall quiet, the evening soft and gentle around us, and I don't want to speak. I want to savour this moment and give Jake the time he needs.
"Sylvia had a go at me yesterday," he says eventually. "She told me to stop punishing you for caring about me."
I nod, twiddling my pencil. "And how did you feel about that?"
Jake scoffs. "You need to stop spending so much time with Muhammad. But it didn't make me feel great."
I look up at him, and I can see conflict in his gaze, a mess of guilt and hurt pride.
"I'm gonna start going back to therapy, okay?" he says. "I don't want to. I don't think it's gonna help, but you ignoring me definitely doesn't."
"Okay."
Jake eyes me for a moment. "So, you'll talk to me again?"
"I have been talking to you. It's you who hasn't been talking to me."
His mouth turns all pouty. "Only at the start."
I smile and pull him into a hug, squeezing hard.
"Thank you, Jake," I say. "Really. I think therapy will help."
"Yeah, I suppose."
I can't help the warmth that spreads through me then, a feeling of complete relief and optimism, a certainty that Jake has taken the first step away from the precipice he's been hurtling towards. I pull back and grin at him.
"Stop looking so happy," he mutters.
"Okay," I say, but I continue to smile and he rolls his eyes.