I Would Gladly Break My Heart For You

Part 2

I couldn’t believe it.

I knew Theo had always had tension with Tommy. I’d just assumed it was because of me, because of my complicated history with him, my bitterness, my proximity.

But this?

This is something else entirely.

“You slept with him,” I say, the words leaving my mouth before I can stop them.

“Yeah,” he sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I did. Multiple times”

The cold settles deeper into my bones.

“I—” I start, then stop. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to comfort this version of Theo, raw, drunk, cracked open in a way I’ve never seen before.

So I don’t.

The silence stretches between us, heavy and awkward and full of things neither of us knows how to untangle. My cheek still throbs. His eyes are fixed on the ground.

“I’m sorry,” I say finally. It feels inadequate, but it’s all I have.

Theo doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t tell me it’s okay.

He just stands there, quiet, and somehow that hurts more than if he’d yelled.

-Flashback-

The room is too warm. Someone left a lamp on, casting everything in a dull orange glow that makes the edges of the world feel soft and unreal. There’s music bleeding in from another room, bass thudding like a second heartbeat.

Theo is drunk. Not falling-over drunk, but loose enough that his thoughts don’t line up right.

So is Tommy.

They’re laughing at first, too loud, too close until the laughter melts into something slower, heavier. They end up on the bed without really deciding to. Just gravity. Just momentum.

They kiss.

It’s clumsy. All teeth and breath and the faint taste of cheap beer. Theo doesn’t overthink it. Not yet. He lets himself have this moment, because moments are all it ever is with Tommy.

They lie there afterward, staring at the ceiling.

Then Tommy laughs once, shaky. It breaks into something else halfway through.

“Am I really that hard to love?” Tommy asks suddenly, voice small in a way Theo’s never heard before.

Theo turns his head, confusion sobering him just a little. “What?”

Tommy’s eyes are glossy. Not from the alcohol. “Everyone leaves,” he says. “Or they want something. Or they get bored.”

Theo reaches for his hand without thinking, fingers curling around Tommy’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

For a second, Tommy lets it happen.

Then he pulls away.

Theo exhales through his nose, staring at the ceiling again. Of course. It’s always like this. Sweet only when Tommy’s too drunk to remember. Too drunk for the distance to show. For the walls to stay down.

Theo swallows.

“No, You’re not hard to love,” he says quietly. “You’re just eighteen, Tom.”

Tommy doesn’t answer.

The music keeps playing in the other room, oblivious.

And Theo lies there, knowing, already, that when morning comes, this will disappear like it never mattered at all.

-Flashback over-

“It’s not your fault,” Theo says quietly, finally breaking the silence. His voice is hoarse, stripped of its edge. “You didn’t know.”

I look at him, my chest tight.

“But I really wanted you to stand up for yourself,” he continues. “For me.” He swallows, eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder. “Because maybe if you didn’t write that letter—didn’t help him, he would’ve finally understood that I’m enough.”

The words land heavy.

“And you would too,” Theo adds, softer now. “Understand that you’re enough for her.”

The cold air presses in around us.

I don’t know how to answer. I don’t know how to carry both his hurt and mine without dropping something.

“You know you’re a hypocrite, Theo,” I say quietly, a small, sad smile pulling at my lips. “You’re enough too.”

He looks at me then, really looks at me.

“And if Tommy can’t see that,” I continue, voice steady despite the ache in my chest, “that doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Maybe we both are” Theo smiles weakly 

“Hypocrites”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Theo leaves with Ava not long after.

I stayed behind.

I sit on the curb at the edge of the driveway, concrete seeping cold through my jeans, the house behind me still pulsing with noise like nothing cracked open tonight. My cheek aches where Tommy hit me. My head feels heavier than my body.

I stare at my hands. They’re shaking a little.

The front door opens.

Sophia steps out.

There’s something different about her, her jaw set, shoulders tight, like she’s holding herself together by force alone. Whatever happened inside, it wasn’t nothing.

She spots me.

Doesn’t say my name.

She walks straight over, grabs my hand, and pulls me up in one swift motion. Her grip is firm, desperate.

“Drive,” she says.

That’s all. No explanation. No hesitation.

“What about Tomm—” I start.

She cuts me off with a sharp look, eyes dark, unyielding. “Drive.”

I don’t argue.

I follow her to my car, heart pounding, unlock it with numb fingers. She gets in without looking at me, slamming the door a little harder than necessary. I slide into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and pull away from the house.

The party disappears behind us.

And the silence that fills the car is louder than the music ever was.

I never thought a car ride with Sophia could feel like this, like the air itself is pressing down on my chest. The silence crawls, heavy and alive, filling every inch of the car until it feels impossible to breathe.

The streetlights blur past the windshield, flashing gold and white across her face. She’s staring straight ahead, jaw tight, hands folded in her lap like she’s afraid they might shake if she lets them move. I keep my eyes on the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel, every red light stretching too long, every green coming too fast.

I want to say something. Anything. A joke. A question. An apology I’m not even sure I owe.

But the quiet swallows every thought before it reaches my mouth.

The heater hums softly, the only proof the car is still alive, still moving. Her perfume lingers, familiar, comforting, and suddenly unbearable. I wonder if she can hear how loud my heart is, how it thuds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

Whatever happened back there is sitting between us now. Unsaid. Unmovable.

“Why are you friends with him?” Sophia breaks the silence like glass, fragile, but sharp enough to cut.

“Who?” I try to smile, weak and useless. I already know who she means. I just hope, stupidly, that playing dumb might buy me a second.

“Tommy Hale,” she says. “Mr. Golden Boy. Prodigy. Darling. Teacher’s pet. Blue-eyed boy. God’s favorite.” Each title drops heavier than the last, like she’s exhausted from carrying the story everyone else loves so much. As if saying each nickname coined to the mysterious, perfect Tommy Hale would make him change.

“I—” I hesitate. Because if I’m honest, too honest, I’d tell her it’s because I wrote him that stupid letter. Because when I’m near him, I feel closer to you. Like I can borrow a piece of you, I can love you through him. Imagine the ‘what ifs’.

“I don’t know,” I say instead. “Do I need a reason?”

She shakes her head, turning to the window. “No. It’s just…” Her voice trails off. “He’s really different from you.”

“I know.” I let out a quiet breath. The difference has always been obvious. “He's somebody. I'm nobody. It’s not the first time someone’s pointed that out, Sophia.”

“No—” she says quickly, and I feel her eyes on me now. “That’s not what I mean.”

I keep my gaze on the road, but her words keep coming, softer, more dangerous.

“You’re deep. You’re smart. You feel like you have layers—like every time I talk to you, there’s something new underneath. You make me want to understand more.” She pauses. “But him? He’s… simple. He doesn’t think enough. Doesn’t question enough. Doesn’t see enough.”

My chest tightens.

“I’m starting to feel trapped with him,” she admits. “He’s sweet, I’ll give him that, but he doesn’t know me, he doesn’t try to. I feel like that first month, the month where I saw glimpses of what I want, was a mystery. A façade.” Her voice drops. “ and sometimes it feels like he borrowed that version of himself from you.”

Silence floods the car again.

“And I hate that,” she finishes quietly, “because that month felt like I was hanging out with you and I didn’t even know it.”

Her words hit harder than any punch tonight.

I almost missed a turn.

My foot eases off the gas, the car slowing like my body is trying to buy my brain time to catch up. The road curves ahead, empty, dark. Safe enough to fall apart in.

“You felt like you were hanging out with me?” I repeat quietly, not trusting my voice to be anything louder.

She exhales, shaky. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“No, it’s okay,” I cut in, softer than I felt. “I just… wasn’t expecting it.”

Silence rushes back in, but it’s different now. Charged. Like the moment before lightning strikes.

“I don’t hate Tommy,” she says after a beat. “I really don’t. He’s kind. He tries. But it’s like…” She struggles for the words, hands twisting together. “It’s like he skims the surface of things, and I keep drowning.”

My throat tightens.

“I ask him questions and he answers like it’s a test he wants to pass, not a conversation he wants to stay in,” she continues. “And then I talk to you, and you sit with things. You feel them. You don’t rush to fix or impress.”

I swallow hard, eyes fixed on the road. “Sophia…”

“I know,” she says quickly, pain threading her voice now. “I know how bad this sounds.”

“It’s okay, I’m sure it will work itself out” I say with a smile. I know it won’t comfort her but what else do I tell her. 

The dashboard light casts her face in soft blue shadows. She doesn’t look relieved. She looks guilty. Worse, conflicted.

“That’s the problem,” she says quietly. “You’re always sure. Always gentle about it. Like you’re trying not to take up space.”

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

“I don’t want to be the reason things get messy,” I say. “You’re with him. He’s my friend. Tonight was already… a lot.”

Her laugh is short, brittle. “Everything is already messy. I didn’t make it messy by saying it out loud.”

That lands somewhere deep in my chest.

The car hums beneath us, tires eating up the dark pavement. Streetlights flicker past like blinking eyes, like moments we don’t get to stop inside.

“I feel awful,” she admits. “Because I care about him. But when I’m with you, I don’t feel like I’m pretending to be lighter than I am.”

I breathe in slowly, the air catching halfway down.

“That’s not fair to you,” I say. “Or to him.”

“I know,” she whispers. “And that’s what scares me.”

Another stretch of silence. Thicker now. Heavier.

I pull up to a red light, the car idling. For a second, everything is still. I finally let myself glance at her.

She’s staring straight ahead, jaw tight, eyes glassy but determined not to spill. Like she’s standing at the edge of something she doesn’t want to jump into, but can’t stop looking down.

“Nothing has to happen,” I say carefully. “You don’t owe me anything. I don’t want to be… a comparison. Or an escape.”

Her shoulders drop just a little, like she’s been holding them up all night.

“I don’t think of you as an escape,” she says. “I think of you as someone who sees me.”

My breath catches.

She looks down at my lips, just for a second—but it’s enough. I know that look. I’ve imagined it more times than I’ll ever admit. It’s a question without words. An opening. An invitation.

She leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away.

And for half a heartbeat, I let myself believe it. Let myself imagine what it would feel like to stop being careful. To choose something just because I want it.

Then the light turns green.

The world moves again.

My foot hits the gas.

The car surges forward, the moment snapping like a thread pulled too tight. The space between us fills instantly, with motion, with noise, with everything I didn’t say.

I keep my eyes on the road, jaw tight, pretending I didn’t feel the ghost of her breath, pretending my chest isn’t screaming.

“I’m sorry,” I say, too quickly. Too quietly. “I can’t.”

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t reach for me. She just leans back in her seat, facing forward again.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I figured.”

But the way she says it, soft, resigned, hurts worse than if she’d been angry.

We drive the rest of the way in silence. And I know I did the right thing.

I also know it’s going to haunt me.

-Flashback-

Sophia drags Tommy down the hall, fingers locked around his wrist, heels scraping hard against the floor. The music thumps through the walls, muffled but relentless, like a pulse that won’t slow down.

She pushes him into a small, unused room and slams the door shut behind them.

“Why did you do that?” she demands, breath sharp, anger flashing in her eyes.

Tommy runs a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning back to her. “It’s not your business, Sophia. Please. Just drop it.”

Her laugh is short and incredulous. “Not my business?” she repeats. “I think it became my business the second my boyfriend started a fight at a party—”

She steps closer, voice breaking through the music leaking under the door.

“—and punched my friend.”

The words hang there, heavy.

Tommy’s jaw tightens. His bravado falters just a little. “It was an accident.”

“An accident doesn’t look like that,” she snaps. “An accident doesn’t come with clenched fists and months of anger you refuse to talk about.”

He looks away.

Sophia’s voice softens, but only slightly. “You don’t get to pretend nothing’s wrong anymore, Tommy. Not when people I care about are bleeding because of it.”

Silence fills the room, loud and suffocating.

And for the first time that night, Tommy has nothing to say.

Sophia crosses her arms, jaw tight. “What were you even fighting about?” Her voice is steady, stern in a way that makes it worse.

“I don’t want to say,” Tommy says, looking away from her.

“Tell me. Tommy” Her voice stern “Stop babying around”

Tommy looks right at her. “He talked shit about you.”

Her eyes flash. “So you punched him?” Anger drips from every word. “Are you kidding me? You did this because some drunk idiot called me names? What are you, five?”

“I was defending you,” Tommy snaps, finally looking at her. “Why can’t you see that? I was protecting you.”

“I don’t need that,” she fires back. “I need you to be mature. I need you to grow a fucking pair and let it go.” 

“He was bitching around so it got heated, why can’t you back me up” Tommy shouts “I don’t get you, my exes loved it when I stood up for them, literally every girl likes it, but you don’t” 

“Thats because everyone puts you on a pedastal, golden boy this, Mr perfect that, everyone lets you get away with it, but me, I’m not” Sophia points at him “If you’re acting like a little kid, beating up anyone who bothers you, I’m going to be mad.”

“It doesn't matter that you tried to defend me.” She steps closer, matching his volume. “Who even cares what Theo says about me?”

“I do,” he says immediately, voice cracking. “I fucking do. I wanted to protect you.” A hollow laugh slips out of him. “Do you know what he was calling you, huh? A player. A whore. That you don’t love me lik— all this bullshit. And you wanted me to just sit there and take it?”

“I wanted you to have some dignity, Tommy,” Sophia says, voice sharp but steady. “Do you understand me? Everyone calls girls that. It’s not the first time. If you exist, if you love yourself, think you deserve to look pretty,  you get labeled. That’s how it works. That's the life of any girl that tries, but we handle ourselves" Her eyes burn. “And we sure as hell don’t need a shining knight to save us. Cause you doing that makes it a hundred times worse.”

Tommy’s shoulders sag. “I can’t do that,” he whispers. “I’m not that strong.” He swallows. “I think I love you.”

Sophia goes quiet, the words settling between them like glass. She opens her mouth, then stops.

“Don’t tell me this now, that's not fair”

“I love you, Sophia Laforteza,” he says, desperate now.

“Please don’t pull that on me” Sophia says sternly

Tommy repeats himself, emphasizing each word “I love you, Sophia”

Her voice comes out barely above a breath. “I don’t, Tommy.”

He nods slowly, like he expected it. “That’s why you hate it when I do stuff like this,” he says, forcing a weak smile. “If you loved me, this would be heroic. Right?”

Sophia looks at him, really looks at him this time. The insecurity. The need. The way he confuses violence with protection.

“No, Tommy,” she says quietly. “It wouldn’t. And the fact that you can’t see that…” She shakes her head. “That terrifies me.”

She turns and walks out, leaving the door open behind her, the music and noise of the party flooding back in as Tommy stands alone.

-flashback over-

I drove her to the fro-yo place.

I could tell she needed it, something sweet, something familiar, something that didn’t ask questions or demand explanations.

“Hey,” I say softly, breaking the quiet. “My treat. Get whatever you want.”

She smiles and doesn’t argue, which tells me more than any words could. “Thanks.”

We order slowly, fingers brushing as we reach for spoons and napkins, then retreat back to my car with our cups balanced carefully in our hands. We sat there eating, legs angled toward each other, the hum of the engine and distant traffic wrapping around us like background noise.

I watched her for a second. The tension hasn’t disappeared, but it’s loosened. Just a little.

I smile, grasping at anything lighter. “Okay,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Do you want to just… gossip? I feel like good gossip can fix at least forty percent of emotional damage.”

She lets out a small laugh. “Sure.”

That laugh feels like a win.

“So,” I continue, more genuinely now, “I heard— well from Ava—that Jonah and Daniela are getting pretty serious.”

“Oh my god, those love birds,” Sophia laughs, rolling her eyes. “Last week I was hanging out with Dani and Yoonchae and guess who shows up.”

“Jonah,” we say at the same time.

She points her spoon at me, grinning. “Yes. And he brought this big-ass bouquet and just stole Dani away. Like romantic, fine, whatever but my Dani. my sweet little Dani was stolen from me” She pouts dramatically.

I laugh, real this time, the sound surprising even me. And for a moment, just a moment it almost feels normal again.

“They really are cute,” I say, smiling into my froyo. “I’ve been hanging out with Jonah more recently, and it’s always—‘this reminds me of Dani’ or ‘do you think my girl would like this?’ He even made me stay after to tutor him in Spanish. Like ask one of the Garcia twins to do it”

Sophia hums softly. “I hope that kind of love finds me.”

I glance at her, then back down at my cup. “Yeah. Me too.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just… loaded.

“Speaking of you,” she says lightly, like she’s testing the water. “What’s your love life like?”

My stomach drops.

“Oh—um.” I laugh, a little too fast. “Pretty boring.”

This is not a conversation people have with their crush. This is the game of chicken. Say something real and risk everything, or keep it safe and swallow the truth like I always do.

News flash: I don’t have the guts.

“I’m kind of a loser when it comes to dating,” I add, shrugging like it doesn’t matter.

She looks at me then. Really looks. Like she’s trying to read between the lines.

“Really…” Sophia tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Because my friend is actually really interested in you.”

I blink. Once. Then laugh, because what else am I supposed to do?

What game is she playing? One second she’s telling me I see her too well, the next she’s casually dangling me in front of someone else like bait.

“Are you pimping me out here, Laforteza?” I joke, trying to keep it light.

She grins. “Depends. Do you want to be?”

There it is again. Questions answered with questions. Half-steps forward, half-steps back. Always just out of reach.

I glance at her, searching her face. “And this friend,” I say carefully, “is she asking for herself, or…?”

Sophia shrugs, spoon tapping against her cup. “Does it matter?”

Yes, I think. It matters more than you know.

Out loud, I just smile. “You’re impossible.”

She laughs, soft and warm. “You’re still here.”

I smile joking “Its obligation, not choice, remember you’re the one who dragged me here”

She raises an eyebrow, amused. “Oh please. You could’ve escaped.”

“I’m very bad at escaping,” I say. “Especially when they look like they would kill me if I didn’t listen.”

She smiles at that, then goes quiet again, spoon circling the cup slowly. The laughter fades, but not awkwardly, more like it settles, making room for something else.

“I’m glad you stayed,” she says, almost like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.

My chest tightens. I look at her, really look at her, and for a second the urge to tell the truth presses against my ribs.

“Me too,” I say instead.

And it feels like the most honest thing I’ve said all night.

I finish the last bite of froyo and toss the cup into the holder, starting the engine again. The ride back is quieter, but not heavy like before. It’s the kind of quiet that hums, like something unfinished.

The streetlights blur past the windows, casting soft gold across her face. She leans back in her seat, arms folded loosely, looking calmer—tired, but steadier.

“Thanks,” she says after a while. “For tonight. For… everything.”

“Anytime,” I reply. And I don’t joking this time.

When we pull up in front of her house, I slow to a stop. The porch light is on. Familiar. Safe. Too final.

She hesitates with her hand on the door, then looks back at me. “I’m really glad it was you who drove me.”

My throat tightens. “Yeah,” I say softly. “Me too.”

She smiles, small, genuine and opens the door. I wait until she’s inside, until the light in the hallway flicks on and I know she’s okay.

Only then do I pull away.

The road home feels longer than it should.

I get home and the house is quiet in that familiar, lived-in way. The lights are low. The TV is on.

Dad’s on the couch, one arm slung over the back, watching some old movie he’s probably seen a hundred times. He looks over when he hears the door.

“Hey, kid,” he says. “You’re back early.”

I kick off my shoes and drop onto the couch beside him, the cushions sinking in just right. The warmth of the room settles into me. I didn’t realize how tired I was until now.

“How was the party?” he asks, eyes still on the screen.

I smile, small but real. “It was…interesting.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.” He reaches for the remote, lowers the volume a notch. “High school parties usually are. Is that were you got that bruise”

“Oh, you saw” I say, lighting rubbing the corner of my face.

“Yah, I saw. I know I can’t talk though cause I would come home like that every party” He says.

I lean my head back, watching the flicker of light across the ceiling. “Did you go to a lot?”

“Oh, God,” he groans. “Too many. Your uncle dragged me to every single one.” He shakes his head, smiling at the memory. “But your mom—” He pauses, then his smile turns softer. “Your mom was the life of the party.”

I glance at him.

“She’d walk in and suddenly the music was better. People were laughing louder. Even the quiet kids felt like they belonged.” He chuckles. “She danced like nobody was watching. Because she genuinely didn’t care if they were.”

I smile, the ache in my chest familiar but gentler tonight. “That sounds like her.”

“She had this way of making everything feel lighter,” he says. “Like nothing bad could happen as long as she was there.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the movie playing on.

Dad clears his throat. “You know,” he adds quietly, “it’s okay if parties feel like too much for you. You don’t have to love the things everyone else does.”

I nod. “I know.”

He nudges my shoulder with his. “You’re more like her than you think, though. Just in different ways.”

I smile at that, leaning back into the couch, letting the movie play, letting the night finally slow down.

—----—---------—----—---------—----—---------—----—---------—----—--

I wake up on the couch, neck stiff, mouth dry. The TV is off now, the room dim and quiet in that early-morning way where everything feels suspended.

Somewhere down the hall, the shower’s running.

I sit up slowly and grab my phone.

It lights up like it’s been waiting for me.

Sophia 👑

Thanks for yesterday 💕 I rly needed it!Btw I think I left my jacket in the truck so can I pick it up later?

My chest tightens, not unpleasantly, just… a lot.

Then

Tommy

I think I fucked up.I need ur help now.Help me pls. Text me back ASAP

I sigh, dragging a hand down my face.

And then the group chat.

Dumb and Dumber

Ava: Pull up now, Y/N Theo: Meeting at Ava in 10:00

I check the time.

10:28.

“Shit.”

I’m on my feet instantly, grabbing the cleanest pair of clothes I can find and tugging them on without thinking. I’ll shower later, probably at the twins’ place, if Ava doesn’t kill me first.

I pass the bathroom door and call out, “I’m heading to the twins’!”

Dad’s voice comes muffled through the steam. “Eat something!”

“I will!” I lie, already halfway out the back door.

Cold air hits my face as I sprint across the yard, cutting through the back lawn. The broken fence between our houses looms ahead, the one we busted when we were ten and never fixed properly. Just widened it over the years, like an agreement no one ever had to say out loud.

I hop over without slowing down, landing on the twins’ side like I’ve done a thousand times before. Some things never change. Even when everything else feels like it’s about to.

I enter their house without a second thought. I never knock. I never have. This place has become mine in all the ways that matter—a second home, a refuge, a constant. The kind of comfort you don’t question.

“Hey, Mrs. Garcia,” I call out. “Beautiful as always.”

“Hi, Y/N!” Mrs. Garcia turns from the kitchen, already smiling. “Ava’s upstairs.”

“Thank you,” I say, already halfway to the stairs.

“Wait.”

I stop mid-step.

She holds out a piece of warm focaccia wrapped in a napkin, the smell hitting me instantly—olive oil, rosemary, comfort. “Freshly baked,” she says, winking. “I know that old man of yours hasn’t cooked properly.”

I laugh, taking it from her. “You know him too well.”

“Eat,” she orders gently, like she always does.

“Thank you,” I say—and I mean more than just the bread.

I take a huge bite and bolt up the stairs, bursting through Ava’s door without knocking.

“I’m back, bitches,” I announce, grinning.

The room is dead silent.

Ava and Theo are sitting on the floor, notebooks spread out between them, pens in hand. No music. No chaos. Just the kind of seriousness that immediately makes my stomach drop.

I slow to a stop. “…Oh.”

Ava doesn’t look up. “Really,” she says flatly. “Thirty minutes late. I’m impressed you even showed up.”

I shrug, still chewing. “Hey, I came.”

Theo finally glances at me, nose wrinkling. “Did you… shower?”

I sniff my hoodie defensively. “Wow. Rude.”

“You smell like yesterday’s alcohol,” Ava adds, tone exhausted.

“Okay, first of all,” I say, holding up a finger, “ I didn’t drink.”

“No,” Ava cuts in. “I'm pretty sure you did.”

“I didn’t and second” I sigh dramatically and clasp my hands together. “Please,” I say, tilting my head, pulling out the puppy's eyes. “Ava. Can I use your shower?”

She finally looks at me, dark circles under her eyes, patience hanging by a thread. “Again?” she says, voice dripping with tired disbelief. “Take the damn shower at home at this point.”

Theo snorts.

I grab a towel from the fresh hamper and duck into the bathroom, turning the water on hot. The shower is quick—too quick—but it scrubs the night off me enough that my shoulders finally loosen. Steam fogs the mirror. I don’t look at myself for long.

I’m halfway through drying my hair when my phone buzzes on the counter.

I already know who it is.

Tommy

I sigh and unlock it anyway.

Y/N: What do you want?

Tommy: Jesus what's with the hostility. Anyways I fucked up and I need to do something. Sophia.

Y/N: What did you do?

Tommy: Well you know when I accidentally punch u btw I am so sorry i wasn’t aiming for you. Well sophia got mad that I was defending her and I need to win her back

Y/N: Wow you are forgiven ig. but you rly were going to punch Theo??

Tommy: i mean yah. I was a little drunk, making it hard for me to go home bc my ride left me (btw I had to crash at Jonah’s, not fun.) Anyways yah. He deserved it tho, he was talking shit about Sophia.

Y/N: So you fought him in the middle of a party…?? Tommy: Not u too. I can’t rly be in the wrong here. The guy was calling my girl a ho ofc i’m going to punch him.

Y/N: Yah ig… but don’t u think Sophia isn’t that type of girl?? u know I feel like she would appreciate maturity

Tommy: of course u wouldn’t get it (bitchless) dw once u start dating it’ll make sense. Anyways theres like an unspoken rule that u stand up for ur girl and thats what I did. But instead of standing up i accidentally punched u (again Im so sorry). And idk how i should apologize

Y/N: dude u guys have been dating for like 4 months and ur still asking me?? Don’t u think thats like rly stupid.

Tommy: no but ur like romantic extraordinaire

Y/N: I thought u said im bitchless. Anyways I need to go. u got this figure it out urself for once

I don’t wait for his reply.

I turn my phone completely off, like flipping a breaker in my chest. Silence floods in, sudden and loud. For a second I just stand there, towel hanging loose around my neck, water still dripping from my hair onto the tile.

Romantic extraordinaire. I laugh once, sharp and humorless.

I pull my hoodie back on, shove my phone into my pocket, and take a breath before stepping back into Ava’s room.

“Sorry for the wait,” I say, plopping down next to Theo on the bean bag.

“No problem, man,” he says, glancing over. “You smell way better now, at least.”

I snort. Ava’s eyes flick between us, clearly clocking the fact that the edge—the sharp, brittle silence from earlier—is gone. Or at least dulled.

“Anyways,” she says, clapping her hands once, businesslike, “I called this meeting because—” she grins, unable to hold it in, “I booked us a gig.”

Theo sits up straighter. “Battle of the Bands,” he adds proudly. “Rock-a-fella Café. Down the street.”

My heart stutters. “You’re kidding.”

“And if we win,” Theo continues, counting on his fingers, “we get two hundred bucks plus a gift card.”

Ava beams. “Which means free coffee. And bragging rights.”

For the first time all morning, something light sparks in my chest. Not drama. Not guilt. Not longing.

Music.

“Okay,” I say slowly, a smile sneaking up on me despite everything. “When?”

Ava’s grin turns dangerous. “A week from now.”

Of course it is.

“And… covers allowed?” I ask, already praying.

She shakes her head, smiling wider. “Nope. Completely original.”

My stomach drops.

“That’s why you,” she says, pointing straight at me, “Y/N Y/L/N, resident tortured poet, are writing the song. You’re always scribbling in that notebook anyway.”

I stare at her. “Do you not think the timing is… objectively awful?” I hiss. “Like, catastrophically bad? A week?”

Theo laughs. “I’ve seen you write an essay the night before it’s due.”

“That is academic trauma, not talent.”

“Well,” Ava says cheerfully, tossing a pencil and a sheet of paper at my chest, “better get started.”

I catch them on reflex. The paper feels heavier than it should.

“It’s not that simple,” I mutter. “You can’t just—” I gesture vaguely at my head, “—summon a song.”

Theo raises an eyebrow. “Says the girl who wrote a three-page poem on the back of a math test.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

I look down at the blank page. At the pencil resting across it. My reflection faint in the graphite sheen.

“That one,” I say quietly, “wasn’t for an audience.”

The room goes still for a moment.

Then Ava softens—just a little too late.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” she says. “It just has to be good enough to win.”

I stare at her. “Wow,” I deadpan. “Thanks for the honesty.”

She grins, unbothered, and retreats with Theo into his room, already arguing about sound levels and harmonies like none of this emotional labor belongs to me.

The door clicks shut.

An hour passes.

Then another ten minutes that feel like a dare.

I’m still on the floor, back against Ava’s bed, surrounded by casualties. Crumpled paper. Half-lines crossed out so hard the pencil ripped through. Words that sound fake. Lines that feel borrowed. Everything is useless.

What did they expect? That I’d just wake up and bleed out a masterpiece on command?

My head falls back against the mattress. The ceiling blurs. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes.

I should quit.

I’m just about to give in to the thought when—

Tap.

I freeze.

Another soft tick against the glass.

Then a tiny thunk.

I turn my head just in time to see a pebble bounce off the windowpane.

I crawl over, heart suddenly loud, and peer down.

Sophia stands in the yard below, hands shoved into her jacket pockets, looking up at me like this is the most natural thing in the world. The porch light catches her face, her smile easy and warm, like she hasn’t been haunting every corner of my brain since last night.

She lifts a hand and gives a small wave.

And just like that, the room feels less heavy.

Less impossible.

I crack the window open. “You know,” I whisper-shout, “normal people text.”

She laughs softly. “I did. You didn’t answer.”

Right.

My phone is still off.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

She shrugs, smile tilting. “I thought you might need a distraction.”

I look back at the mess behind me. The blank pages. The silence.

Maybe… yeah.

Maybe I do.

“And,” she adds, laughing, “I also need my jacket back.”

God. I could die from that laugh.

“Just—wait,” I say quickly, already turning toward the door.

That’s when Theo’s door slams open and Ava appears like a horror-movie jump scare.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Uh—just out—” I hesitate, brain short-circuiting.

“Nope.” She steps forward and physically herds me back into the room. “You can leave once you finish writing. We’re busting our asses on the instrumentals so you can focus.”

“I—”

“Finish by today, please,” she says sweetly, then shuts the door in my face.

Click.

I stand there for a beat.

I look at the door. Then at the window. Then at the window again.

“…Fuck it,” I whisper.

I push the window open, swing one leg out, then the other, gripping the drainage pipe like my life depends on it. I slide down awkwardly, landing with a small limp that I absolutely pretend doesn’t exist.

“All good,” I say immediately, flashing her a toothy smile.

Sophia stares at me for half a second.

Then she laughs. Really laughs.

“You’re pretty weird,” she says, shaking her head.

I grin, still a little breathless. “I get that a lot.” At least she said pretty. I tuck that word away like it’s something fragile and expensive.

I brush the dust off my hoodie and face her. “Ready?”

She smiles, eyes bright. “Okay, let’s get my jacket, you little baby.”

Baby.

She has to know how lethal that smile is. How unfair it is to say something like that and look at me like that. How I would fight everyone—everyone—just to see it again, just once more.

I scoff, pretending my heart isn’t doing something stupid. “I am not a baby.”

She hums, already turning toward the house. “Sure you’re not.”

I follow her anyway.

Because I always do.

I open my car door and spot her jacket tossed across the backseat. I grab it, tugging it free. “Well, here you go—”

I turn.

She’s gone.

“…What?” I mutter, confused.

Then I hear the passenger door shut.

I look over and find her already seated inside, grinning like she just won something.

“Come on, baby,” she says, pouting dramatically. “Take me to that park.”

I laugh despite myself. “You know you can’t just steal my car like that.”

She shrugs. “You know which park I’m talking about.”

“Yeah,” I say, starting the engine, smiling. “I do.”

I pull out of the driveway.

“You’re such a passenger princess,” I add.

She beams, running her fingers along the leather seat. “Only for this car.”

I drive for a few quiet minutes before pulling into the park, the place half-lit and familiar. We head to the swings, and I lean back, letting my feet drag through the dirt as I rock gently.

“So,” I say casually, “how did you know I was at the twins’ place?”

“Your dad told me,” she says easily, kicking off the ground. “And may I just say, he is a very kind gentleman.”

I smile at that, softer this time. “Yeah. He really is… kind.”

She looks over at me. “I can see where you get it from. He taught you well.”

I scoff, embarrassed. “Okay, relax.”

She grins. “So what were you doing at the twins’ place,” she pauses, then adds in the most infuriatingly cute-condescending tone, “baby?”

I groan. “Is that nickname going to stick?”

“Yes.”

“I preferred Rocky,” I mutter. “For the record.”

She laughs, victorious.

“I was working on a project,” I continued. “Battle of the Bands. Apparently there’s a competition at Rock-a-fella Café.”

“Oh, I know,” Sophia says casually.

I blink. “You know?”

“Yeah. I work there.” She adds

I nearly fell off the swing. “You work there?”

She nods. “They’ve got this whole speakeasy vibe in the back. I loved it, so I applied.”

“I didn’t know you were into band stuff.”

I tilts my head. “You didn’t think I was the rock type?”

“Well… you’re very sophisticated at school.”

I laugh. “That’s kind of on purpose. It’s awkward being really into music and also a nerd, you know?”

“What’s awkward about that?” she asked quickly, reassuring. “Honestly, if the whole school knew you played—uh…”

“The bass,” I fill in.

“The bass,” she repeats. “They’d be fawning over you. Not just Manon.”

I freeze. “So it is Manon. The mysterious friend.”

She sighs dramatically. “Yes. You caught me. It’s her.”

“She's single?” I joke.

“I’m not saying.”

“I mean, she’s really pretty,” I pressed, deadpan.

She turns away, offended. “I am not pimping out my friend.”

“I wonder when I should make my move,” I add sarcastically.

She gasps. “You are not dating my best friend, and I am changing the conversation.”

“You can’t just change the conversation.”

“I can and I will” Sophia pouts, then her expression changes sharper, more deeper “have you talk to Tommy yet?”

I shrug, eyes fixed on the ground as my swing slows. “Yeah… kinda. Not really though. Mostly text.”

She hums, not pushing right away. “And?”

“And he’s being… Tommy,” I say carefully. “Confused. Defensive. Very convinced he’s the hero in his own movie.”

She sighs, dragging her shoes through the dirt to stop herself completely. “That sounds about right.”

“He wants to ‘win her back,’” I add, glancing at her. “Like this is some kind of quest.”

Sophia’s jaw tightens, just a little. “That’s the problem. He doesn’t get that this isn’t about winning.”

“Yeah,” I murmured. “I know.” 

 I tilt my head a little, just enough for her to see it. “This definitely doesn’t help his case.” The bruise, the black eye I was left with.

Her expression shifts immediately, guilt, anger, something gentler all tangled together. “I know… I’m really sorry he did that,” she says.

Her hand lifts before I can think better of it. Warm. Careful. She cups my face like I might break if she’s not gentle, her thumb brushing over the bruise in slow, almost absent strokes.

“Does it hurt?” she asks, barely above a whisper.

I swallow, suddenly very aware of how close she is. 

“Not really,” I lie, because the bruise is nothing compared to the way her thumb moves, gentle and careful, like she’s afraid I might break.

Her touch is warm. Steady. It makes my chest feel tight in a way I don’t have words for.

“I’m fine,” I add more honestly, quieter. “I promise.”

She doesn’t pull her hand away right away. Her eyes flick between mine, searching, like she’s trying to read something I’m not brave enough to say out loud.

“I just—” she starts, then stops. Her thumb stills. “I hate that you got dragged into this.”

I give a small smile. “I’ve been dragged into worse.”

That earns me the faintest huff of a laugh, but her expression doesn’t really soften. If anything, it turns more serious.

“You didn’t deserve that,” she says. “None of it.”

The world narrows to the space between us.

The swings sway behind us, metal groaning softly, like they’re trying not to interrupt. The park lights hum overhead, distant and flickering, but they might as well not exist. Her hand is still on my face. Still warm. Still grounding me here.

For a second—just one—we hesitate.

Her eyes don’t leave mine. Dark brown, rich, steady. There’s so much in them it almost scares me: exhaustion, want, confusion, something like relief. Like she’s finally stopped running in her head.

And I don’t think anymore.

I lean in.

Not fast. Not desperate. Just enough to cross the line I’ve been standing on all night.

She doesn’t pull away.

She meets me halfway.

Her thumb still rests against my cheek as our lips touch, soft at first, like we’re both asking a question we already know the answer to. Then a little deeper. A little surer. The kind of kiss that feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

Everything quiets.

No Tommy. No band. No guilt. No future consequences knocking at the door.

Just this.

She pulls back like she’s been burned.

“Fuck—” she breathes, hands dropping, eyes wide now, panic crashing in all at once. “I shouldn’t have. Oh no. I—”

“Sophia,” I say quickly, instinctively reaching for her, then stopping myself halfway. I don’t want to corner her. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s—”

She shakes her head, already spiraling. “No, it’s not. I can’t— I really messed up.” Her voice cracks, frustration and guilt tangling together. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I say softly. “We can just forget. Nothing happened, It’s all my fault.”

She doesn’t look at me. Her arms fold around herself like she’s bracing against the cold, or against herself.

“Can you just… take me home?” she asks quietly. Not cold. Not angry. Just overwhelmed.

My chest tightens, but I nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

The drive back is quieter than before. Not heavy like silence used to be, just fragile. Like one wrong word could shatter something neither of us knows how to fix yet. She stares out the window, thumb worrying at her sleeve.

When we pull up to her house, she hesitates before opening the door.

“Thank you,” she says. 

“Anytime,” I reply. And I mean it.

She pauses, then looks at me, really looks at me, eyes softer now, sadder maybe.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she says.

“I know,” I say.

She gives a small nod, steps out, and closes the door gently behind her.

The door clicks shut.

That’s it.

The sound echoes way louder than it should, and something in my chest finally gives.

“Fuck—” I choke out, hands slamming against the steering wheel. “Of course. Of course I fuck it up.”

I scrub a hand down my face, blink hard, but it’s useless, everything spills anyway. The night, her hand on my face, the way she pulled back, I shouldn’t have. It all crashes at once.

I don’t think. I just move.

I pop open the dashboard, grab the notebook I keep shoved in there like a secret I don’t want to admit I need. The pencil’s already there. Of course it is. It always is.

My hands shake as I write. The words come messy, ugly, real.

I stop, breath hitching.

Outside, her porch light is still on.

I close the notebook slowly, press it to my chest for a second like it might keep my heart from breaking all the way open.

Then I slide it back into the dashboard, start the car, and drive.

Not away from her.

I don’t wait for permission.

I climb back through the window, palms scraping the sill, landing harder than I mean to. The room smells like coffee, paper, and tension—thick enough to choke on. Ava and Theo both look up at the same time.

They already know.

Ava’s arms are crossed, jaw tight, that look she gets when she’s half-worried, half-ready to kill me. “Where have you been?” she asks, stern, controlled—but there’s an edge there now.

I don’t answer.

I walk past the bean bag, past Theo, straight to the desk. My chest feels hollow, like I left something important in the car. Or at the curb. Or on her porch.

“Here,” I say, voice flat.

I toss the paper at Ava.

She catches it on instinct, then looks down. Theo leans over her shoulder.

For a moment, the room is silent except for the faint hum of the amp in Theo’s room.

Ava reads.

Her expression changes—first confusion, then something softer. Her shoulders loosen just a bit. Theo’s mouth parts like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

“This is—” Ava starts, then stops. She exhales. “You wrote this just now?”

I shrug, dropping onto the bean bag like my bones finally gave up. “You said finish it today.”

Theo clears his throat. “Man…” He runs a hand through his hair. “This doesn’t sound like a competition song.”

“No,” I say quietly. “That's all I have.”

Another pause.

Ava folds the paper carefully, like it’s fragile. “You disappeared. I was pissed.” She looks at me now, really looks. “But this? This is why I didn’t come looking.”

Theo nods. “We can build around this.”

I close my eyes for a second, letting it settle in my chest.

“Good,” I mutter. “Because I don’t think I can write anything else tonight.”

No one pushes. No jokes. No teasing. The room stays quiet in that careful way people get when they know something’s cracked but don’t want to shatter it.

Ava watches me for a beat longer than usual. She knows. She always does.

“Do you want to sleep over?” she asks, softer now, like she’s already decided the answer for me.

“Sure,” I say. Too quickly. Like I’m afraid if I hesitate, the night will catch up to me.

Theo stands, stretching. “I’ll grab blankets.”

Ava nods and starts clearing the desk, stacking my scattered pages instead of throwing them away. “Couch or floor? And Theo you can sleep in your own room”

“What” Theo whines 

“Girls only” Ava says 

“What that's not fair, you know what when I have a sleep over you are not invited” Theo says stomping out.

“Drama queen.” She snorts. “And you floor or couch?”

“Floor” I say deadpan, “I deserve it”

“Okay, I see the vibe we are going is sad” She says

But she still tosses me a pillow.

I lie back, staring at the ceiling fan as it spins lazily above me, the room dim except for the lamp in the corner. The house settles around us, familiar creaks, distant laughter from Mrs. Garcia downstairs, the hum of safety.

I’m flat on my back, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars Ava taped to the ceiling years ago. One of them is peeling at the edge, hanging on out of pure stubbornness. Feels familiar.

Sophia sits cross-legged on the floor beside me, wrapped in one of Ava’s hoodies that’s way too big on her. She keeps talking. About nothing. About everything.

“And then,” she says, waving her hands dramatically, “this guy at work asks if a latte has dairy in it. Like. Sir. Please think.”

I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh.

She perks up immediately. “Oh my god, did you hear that? Progress. I’m hilarious.”

“You’re exhausting,” I mumble, turning my head toward her.

“Thank you,” she says proudly. “I work very hard at it.”

She keeps going—stories about customers, about Manon stealing her lip gloss, about how the cafe’s ‘speakeasy’ is definitely just a closet with ambition. Her voice fills the room, warm and messy and alive, like she’s trying to crowd out the silence before it gets brave enough to say something heavy.

I still don’t crack.

Ava keeps talking, pacing a little as she always does when she’s thinking out loud. I nod along absentmindedly, half-listening, half-stuck replaying the park over and over in my head.

“And like, I’m just tired,” she says. “Tired of pretending it’s fine when it’s not.”

I hum in response, eyes on the ceiling.

Then she stops pacing.

“I think I’m probably going to break up with Megan.”

The words land wrong. Too heavy. Too sudden. Like someone dropped a glass in a quiet room.

That gets me.

I sit up so fast the pillow slides off my shoulder. “—Wait, what?”

She freezes, then breaks into a grin. “Oh, so that gets your attention.”

“Of course,” I say, sitting fully upright now. “You breaking up with Megan would probably be the biggest thing that affects me, Ava.”

She laughs, a short little puff of air. “Relax. I’m joking.”

I narrow my eyes. “That wasn’t funny.”

“I know,” she says lightly, then turns away, flopping down onto her bed. She mutters something under her breath, words tangled and low.

“What did you say?” I ask.

She stiffens for half a second. Then, too quickly: “Nothing.”

I don’t buy it.

The room settles again, the hum of the house filling the space between us. Ava stares at the ceiling, arms crossed behind her head. I lie back down, but sleep feels like a joke now.

After a moment, I speak, quieter. “You don’t joke like that unless it’s sitting somewhere in your head.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

“…Go to sleep,” she finally says. “You’re dramatic when you’re tired.”

I turn onto my side, facing away, but my eyes stay open.

Because I know Ava.

And she…she doesn’t joke about these kinds of things.

—-

Mrs. Garcia’s voice cuts through the house like an alarm.

“Breakfast ready, get down now!”

Sunday Munch. The Garcia family has a routine every Sunday with breakfast with everyone, something I’m always invited to.

I groan, peeling myself off the floor, my neck stiff, hair doing whatever it wants. Sunlight leaks through the curtains, way too bright for how little sleep I got. I rub my face, trying to wake up, then turn to Ava, who’s still buried in her blankets like she’s made a nest there.

“Absolutely not,” I mumble, grabbing her ankle and giving it a tug.

She groans. “If you drag me out of this bed, I swear—”

“Your mom made food,” I say, already pulling harder.

That does it.

Ava lets out a dramatic whine but finally sits up, hair sticking out in every direction. “You’re evil.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, fixing my hoodie and smoothing my hair down with my hands. It doesn’t help much, but it’s fine. This house has seen me worse.

We stumble down the stairs together, half-awake, the smell of food getting stronger with every step. Eggs, bread, something sweet—Mrs. Garcia always goes all out.

As soon as we hit the kitchen, she turns, hands on her hips, smiling like she’s won a battle.

“There you are,” she says. “Sit. Eat. No excuses.”

I grin, sliding into a chair like it’s second nature. Because it is.

Mr. Garcia passes the toast down the table, glancing at me. “So, how are you doing? How’s school?”

“Everything’s great,” I say easily. “We just finished exams. All good.”

He nods approvingly. “You helping Theo with his classes? I can’t have him doing junior year again,” he adds with a laugh.

Theo scoffs, reaching for the butter. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’m acing the class.”

Ava snorts. “With how much help?”

Theo shoots her a look. “Unnecessary.”

Mrs. Garcia sets another plate down, shaking her head fondly. “Eat before you start fighting. It’s too early.”

I laugh quietly, buttering my toast, warmth settling in my chest. For a moment, the noise, the teasing, the normalcy, it all feels like a pause button on everything else. And I let myself stay there.

But the feeling doesn’t last.

Guilt creeps in, quiet and sharp. Because my family isn’t like this. We don’t have this kind of banter, this easy love that fills the room no matter what. No loud laughter that bounces off the walls, no routine Sundays that feel unbreakable. And I hate myself a little for being jealous of it. For wanting it so badly my chest aches.

I stare down at my toast, suddenly not hungry.

Maybe if my mom had smiled through her pain. Maybe if she hadn’t let go. Maybe if she’d stayed.

The thought is cruel, and I know it. I know it’s unfair to her, to me. But it slips in anyway, uninvited. The kind of thought that makes you feel like a bad person just for having it.

I swallow hard, forcing my shoulders to relax, forcing my face back into something neutral. No one here deserves my sadness bleeding into their morning.

So I sit there. I eat. I laugh when I’m supposed to.

And I carry the quiet grief with me, like I always do.

After breakfast ends, I head back upstairs with the twins, plates cleared, the warmth of the kitchen fading as soon as the door shuts behind us. The room already feels charged—amps humming low, cables tangled on the floor, notebooks spread open like we’re about to perform surgery instead of write a song.

We jump straight into it.

“No, Theo, the drum beat is too harsh,” I say, tapping the page with my pencil. “It’s pop-rock, not metal.”

Theo rolls his shoulders, sticks twirling between his fingers. “I’m just saying, this song is too slow. It’s not gonna help us win. People want energy. Something that hits.”

Ava looks up from her guitar, immediately shaking her head. “No. The softness suits the lyrics,” she says firmly. “If you rush it, you kill the emotion.”

Theo scoffs. “Emotion doesn’t win battles of the bands.”

I glance down at the paper in my lap, the words I wrote still feeling a little too exposed to be argued over like this. “It’s not supposed to punch you in the face,” I say quietly. “It’s supposed to sink in.”

A beat of silence.

Ava nods, backing me up. “Exactly. Let the chorus lift, sure. But the verses need space. Let people feel it before we throw sound at them.”

Theo exhales, leaning back against the wall. “You two are impossible.”

“Yeah,” I say, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “But we’re right.”

He watches us for a second, then sighs, defeated. “Fine. We try it your way. Once.”

I look up, meeting Ava’s eyes. She grins, victorious.

“From the top,” she says, lifting her guitar.

I lock in with my bass, fingers moving on instinct, humming the lyrics under my breath and stopping every so often to scribble quick changes in the margins. We lose track of time that way—playing, arguing, starting over. Two hours blur together like nothing else exists.

Then my phone rings.

Ava glances over, smirking. “You gonna get that, or should we start charging appearance fees?”

I glance at the screen.

Tommy.

“I’m good,” I say too quickly, and end the call without thinking, turning back to my bass.

The phone rings again.

Theo raises an eyebrow, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You sure, Y/N?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, silencing it again.

I barely have time to breathe before it rings a third time.

Theo laughs. “Okay, Mrs. Popular. You know you’re allowed to answer your phone, right? No one’s stopping you.”

I sigh, already standing. “Sorry—give me a minute.”

I step out into the hallway and answer, pressing the phone to my ear. “I’m kind of busy right now. Can you call later?”

“No,” Tommy says immediately. His voice is off, quiet, strained. Almost… vulnerable. “I need you now. Can you come to school”

His game must’ve just ended.

“I’ll be there,” I say before I can stop myself.

I head back into the room, already grabbing my keys.

Ava looks up, reading my face. “Everything okay?”

“I’ll explain later,” I say, already halfway out the door “continue without me”

I drive to the school faster than I should, hands tight on the wheel, head buzzing with a mix of worry, confusion, and exhaustion. Every red light feels personal.

By the time I pull into the parking lot, the place is already clearing out. A group of kids from our rival school drifts past, laughing too loud, shoving each other like they’ve already forgotten whatever just went down.

Then I see him.

Tommy’s sitting against the chain-link fence at the edge of the lot, head bowed, hoodie pulled up like it might hide him. My chest drops. I tap the horn once. He looks up.

His face is swollen. One eye darkening, lip split.

“Fuck,” I mutter, already throwing the car into park.

I’m out of the car and in front of him in seconds. Up close, it’s worse.

“What the fuck, Tommy?” I say, crouching in front of him. “Why are you bruised up like this?”

He shrugs, wincing. “Sorry. Got into a fight.”

“Tommy—what?” I run a hand through my hair, frustration bleeding through the worry. “Again? Weren’t you just in one like two days ago? By the way, I still have a black eye.”

He lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, like it hurts to do it. “I guess we’re matching.”

I don’t laugh back.

“I’m serious, Tommy,” I say, staring at him. “Just—get in the car.”

“Thanks, buddy,” he mutters, wincing as he pushes himself up, one hand pressed to his stomach.

I watch him shuffle over and slide into the passenger seat, tossing his bag into the back like it weighs nothing. He leans his head against the seat, closes his eyes, then smiles—wide and unfazed, like a maniac. I just stare at him. My mind feels empty. Like every possible thing to say would be wrong.

“I can feel you staring,” he says, opening his one not-so-swollen eye. “I got jumped, okay.”

“By who?” I ask carefully.

He exhales through his nose. “You know Nate. My teammate.” A pause, then a crooked smile. “Turns out getting shit-faced drunk and missing the championship game gets you jumped.”

I blink. “Tommy…”

“Yeah,” he says lightly. “Just learned that today.”

I shake my head, something tight twisting in my chest. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope.” He shrugs as much as his bruises allow. “Showed up ten minutes after the game ended and got my ass kicked.”

He says it like it’s a joke. It isn’t.

I study his profile, the split lip, the swelling blooming purple beneath his eye, the way he’s pretending none of it matters. I know that trick. I’ve lived inside it.

“Do you want to forget about it,” I ask quietly, “talk about it… or leave it alone?”

He’s silent for a beat, jaw tightening. Then his voice drops, stripped of the humor. “I need you to distract me from this pain. I just…can’t deal with it right now.”

I nod, even though he isn’t looking. “Okay.”

I start the engine. The car hums to life, steady and familiar, filling the space between us with something that isn’t silence.

“Let’s just drive.”

I pull out of the parking lot, the school lights shrinking behind us, and for now, for just this stretch of road, I let the road take the weight from both of us.

We don’t talk. The city thins out, streetlights giving way to long, dark stretches of highway. The radio hums low, something instrumental, something easy to ignore. An hour passes like that—just the sound of tires and breathing.

When I finally pull up by the beach, the engine clicks as it cools. The ocean is loud tonight, waves crashing hard, relentless.

Tommy doesn’t say a word. He just opens the door and gets out.

“Tommy—” I start, but he’s already walking away.

I watch him cross the road to the small liquor store, hoodie still up, bruises half-hidden. Through the window, I see him smiling, leaning on the counter, saying something that makes the owner laugh. Of course he does. Of course he can still charm his way through anything.

A minute later, he comes back with two brown paper bags, swinging them like trophies, grinning like nothing’s wrong.

I stare at him through the windshield, disbelief sinking in.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I whisper under my breath.

He shoves one of the bottles into my hands before I can react. Cold glass. Heavy. I don’t even realize I’m holding it until my fingers tighten around the neck.

Tommy doesn’t wait. He walks past me, kicks off his shoes, and drops onto the sand like his body finally gave up holding itself together. Then he tilts the bottle back and starts chugging.

I just stand there.

This is the guy everyone worships. The school’s golden boy. Captain. Prodigy. The one people swear has it all figured out.

And I hate myself a little for how relieved I feel seeing him like this.

I always thought if I were more like him, louder, braver, prettier in the ways people notice, maybe she would too. Maybe confidence was something you could drink into existence. Liquid courage. That stupid fantasy.

But watching him now, shoulders slumped, knuckles white around the bottle, bruises dark against his skin… it hits me.

He’s not untouchable.

He’s hurt. He’s exhausted. He’s spiraling.

He’s just a guy sitting on a beach with a bottle, trying not to feel something. He’s just like me.

I drop down into the sand beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch, and stare out at the dark water. The waves roll in slow and steady, like they don’t care about any of this.

“As I said before,” he mutters, taking another swig, “I can feel you staring at me.”

I blink, then huff out a breath. “Sorry. Bad habit.”

He chuckles, low and rough. “Nah. It’s okay. I would too, if anyone looked as good as me right now.”

I snort despite myself. “Okay, narcissist.”

He smiles at that, really smiles, crooked and tired and for a second it’s the same smile everyone at school knows. Then it fades just as fast.

The bottle hangs loose in his hand. The ocean keeps breathing. And we sit there, two people pretending the night isn’t pressing in on us from all sides.

“Tell me a last word, something I need to hear right now” Tommy says staring into the ocean.

“Nothing” I say. “Just—love one another.”

He turns his head slightly, listening.

“That’s what you need to hear, Tommy,” I continue, voice low. “Not to win. Not to prove anything. Just… to accept the pain, the hurt, all of it and still choose to forgive. To love someone for who they actually are. Not who you want them to be.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while. Just nods once, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on the horizon like he’s afraid the words might slip away if he looks somewhere else.

“Who said it?” he asks finally, voice rough.

“William Henry Seward,” I answered. “U.S. Secretary of State. Supposedly his last words.”

Tommy huffs out a quiet breath, half a laugh. “Figures. Even dying, politicians are still trying to fix the world.”

I smile faintly. “Maybe he just knew it was broken.”

The waves roll in and out, steady and indifferent, and Tommy takes another sip—smaller this time. He doesn’t offer me the bottle. He just holds it, staring ahead.

“I don’t know how to do that,” he admits after a beat. “Love like that. Without fucking it up.”

He turns to me then, really turns, and for a second the ocean, the wind, the whole night feels like it’s holding its breath.

His eyes are swollen, purpled at the edges, but there’s something raw and almost childlike in them now. Stripped of the golden-boy shine. Just a boy asking a question he’s been avoiding his whole life.

“Do you think I’ll get the love I deserve?” he asks quietly. “Do you think people deserve to have it—love—even when we break it?”

I don’t look away when I answer.

“Kids break their favorite toys,” I say quietly. “Not because they don’t love them, because they don’t know how to hold them yet.”

He blinks, slow.

“Humans attach to the things that hurt us the most,” I continue. “Not because we’re broken. Because we’re trying to feel something real. Trying to learn.”

The ocean swells and collapses again.

“So yeah,” I add, softer now. “I think we break love, but it doesn’t mean we deserve it any less.”

🏷️

“Hiii Eyekons, welcome to the Christmas live!” Sophia sings out, waving both hands so hard the sleeves of her red knit sweater slide down.

The comments explode, so fast the screen can barely keep up.

“We’re all here,” Daniela says, scooting closer so they fit in frame. “We decorated ourselves, as you can see.”

Lara laughs. “Budget: zero. Spirit: a hundred.”

Megan smiles softly, fingers absently tracing the silver ring on her left hand. Even after a year, it still feels surreal. Married. Happy. Home.

“And,” Sophia adds, eyes glittering, “we have a very special guest tonight.”

The chat goes feral. Placing guess when they already know the answer.

SPECIAL GUEST??? IS IT WHO I THINK IT IS Y/N??? 

A knock sounds offscreen.

Megan’s smile widens before she can stop it.

The door opens, and you step into frame, wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater ever known to make kind and somehow making it work. 

You are holding two mugs of hot chocolate, marshmallows threatening to spill over.

“Hey,” Y/N says, voice warm. “Merry Christmas, Eyekons.”

Sophia clutches her chest dramatically “Guys. Be normal.”

Y/N hands one mug to Megan, their fingers brushing. It’s small, intimate, practiced, the kind of touch that only comes from choosing each other every day.

“For those who somehow don’t know,” Manon says dramatically, “this is Megan’s spouse. Married. As in—”

“As in last year,” Lara finishes. “After someone”—she side-eyes Y/N—“proposed in Korea during tour.

You lift your hands, lips curling into a sheepish smile. “Guilty.”

Megan laughs under her breath, shaking her head as she leans into your side. The ring on her finger catches the light when she moves, a small glint that doesn’t go unnoticed by the camera or the chat.

THE RING 😭💍 GUILTY BUT PROUD I LOVE IT WHEN HOT PEOPLE MARRY EACH OTHER I don't know if I want to be megan or y/n

Sophia clears her throat, clearly trying and failing to keep things on track. “Anyways,” she says, clapping once, “we have a few things prepared for our Eyekons tonight.”

She gestures around the room. The fairy lights are dimmed just enough to glow warmly, a small Christmas tree tucked into the corner with handmade ornaments and polaroids clipped to its branches. Snow drifts lazily past the window behind you all.

“And I think,” Sophia continues, eyes sparkling, “we should start with Christmas charades.”

A collective groan rises.

“Oh no,” Daniela laughs, hiding her face. “I’m terrible at this.”

Lara points accusingly at you and Megan. “This is rigged already.”

Sophia grins wider. “Exactly why we’re starting with teams.”

Megan tilts her head slightly, already suspicious. “What kind of teams?”

Sophia doesn’t hesitate. “Megan and Y/N vs Lara, Manon, Dani and Me and Yoonchae.”

The room erupts.

“That’s not fair! Megan and Y/N are going to win” Daniela protests.

“That’s actually evil,” Lara adds “They have that weird telepathy shit”

The comments explode faster than before.

MARRIED BUFF ACTIVATED THEY CAN READ EACH OTHER’S MINDS THIS IS GOING TO BE CHAOS

You laugh, instinctively wrapping an arm around Megan’s shoulders as she settles comfortably against you. “We promise not to cheat.”

Megan hums, amused. “Define cheating.”

Sophia hands you a folded card. “Y/N goes first. No talking, no sounds, no singing. One minute to guess.”

You unfold the card and pause, eyebrows lifting for just a split second before you school your expression into something neutral.

“Alright,” Sophia says, holding up her phone like a timer. “Three… two… one, go!”

You jump to your feet immediately, the couch springs bouncing behind you.

First, you mime holding a microphone, gripping it tight like you’re on stage. You plant your feet wide, shoulders squared, posture suddenly shifting into that unmistakable performer mode. Then you tilt your head back dramatically, mouth open as if belting a note meant to shatter stadium lights. One hand presses to your chest, fingers curling like you’re pouring your entire soul into the song, your face twisting into exaggerated emotional agony.

Megan’s eyes widen, not in confusion, but instant recognition. There isn’t even a flicker of doubt.

Megan doesn’t hesitate. “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”

“Oh my god,” Daniela mutters, leaning forward. “Already?”

The buzzer goes off almost immediately.

You freeze for half a second, then bounce in place like a kid on Christmas morning, fists clenched at your sides, grinning so wide it nearly hurts. You point at Megan, nodding enthusiastically, clearly thrilled she got it.

The room absolutely loses it.

“NO,” Lara shouts, half laughing, half offended. “Absolutely not. They are cheating. How did you get All I Want for Christmas Is You from that?”

Sophia doubles over, one hand braced on her knee, barely able to breathe. “IT WAS TWO SECONDS. TWO.”

The chat is unreadable now, just a blur of caps lock, crying emojis, and heart spam.

Megan laughs, shaking her head as she gestures between the two of you. “Marriage perks,” she says lightly. “Don’t worry, you guys will understand one day.”

Manon rolls her eyes "No need to brag, Megan"

Lara wipes tears from her eyes. “Okay, okay. Megan’s turn.”

Megan stands, smoothing down her sweater before unfolding her card. She bites her lip, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Go!”

She starts by pretending to wrap a present carefully, folding invisible paper, taping the edges. Then she pauses, looks down, and suddenly slips, arms flailing as she dramatically “falls” backward onto the couch with a soft thump, legs kicking up.

You gasp silently, halfway out of your seat.

“Oh, come on,” Manon says. “That’s so vague.”

Megan adds the finishing touch: she mimes screaming, hands on her cheeks, eyes wide.

Something clicks. You cross your arms into a big X, then point toward the imaginary floor.

“Home Alone.”

The buzzer goes off.

Yoonchae throws her hands in the air. “I quit. I’m done. I hate this game”

Sophia is laughing so hard she has to lean against the table. “You two share a brain cell. There’s no other explanation.”

Megan sits back up, laughing as she reaches for your hand, fingers lacing together naturally. “We just pay attention to each other.”

You squeeze her hand, smiling softly. “Yeah. That.”

You stand again, rolling your shoulders like you’re getting ready for something serious. As soon as the timer starts, you pick up the note card, look at it and smile. 

You mime holding a cup of coffee, taking a casual sip, then suddenly freeze. Your eyes widen. You look down at the imaginary cup, then at your shirt, horror-struck.

You jerk your hands forward like the coffee has spilled everywhere, flailing slightly as if it’s hot, then point down at yourself, then mime looking up at something tall in front of you. Finally, you stretch your arms wide and make an exaggerated scowling face.

Megan gasps. “The Grinch.”

The buzzer goes off instantly. The room goes silent for half a beat.

“…Huh?” Lara says.

Daniela squints at you. “Where did that come from?”

You and Megan look at each other and immediately start laughing.

“Okay,” Megan says between giggles, “last year, when we watched The Grinch together—”

“I didn’t realize how green he actually was,” she admits, covering her face. “Like… neon green.”

“And she was drinking coffee,” you add, laughing harder now, “and when he showed up on screen she got so surprised she spilled it all over herself.”

"He was so green, It was like gnarly green" Megan defends

Sophia suddenly gasps, eyes going wide as she points at Megan. “WAIT.”

Everyone turns to look at her.

“That’s why,” Sophia says slowly, then louder, realizing hitting her all at once, “that’s why there were coffee stains on my sweater.”

coffee lore just dropped so THAT’S why 😭 megan vs the grinch 1–0 this feels illegal to watch y/n exposing her on live 💀

The room erupts.

Megan finally peeks out from behind her hands, laughing helplessly. “I can’t believe this is coming out on a Christmas live.”

You lean closer, grinning. “Christmas miracles.”

Sophia shakes her head, still smiling. “I’m never letting you live this down.”

“Alright,” Yoonchae says, standing up. “Our turn.”

Sophia and Yoonchae get up, rearranging themselves with Yoonchae takes the lead. She starts miming something enthusiastically, big gestures, spinning motions, exaggerated expressions—but nothing clicks.

Sophia tilts her head. “Is it… ice skating? Wait no a windmill?”

Daniela laughs. “Why are you so aggressive about it?”

Yoonchae stops, hands dropping to her sides. She stares at them, clearly offended.

“It’s—” she blurts out.

“HEY,” Dani immediately points at her. “She spoke!”

The room erupts.

Yoonchae groans dramatically, throwing her head back. “Aishhh—this game is impossible.”

She storms over, very exaggeratedly, and plops herself down right between you and Megan. Before you can react, she wraps an arm around Megan and sticks her tongue out at you triumphantly.

“Mine now,” she declares.

You gasp, clutching your chest, then glare at her with mock outrage. “Yoonchae,” you say dramatically, “you can’t steal Megan from me.”

Yoonchae just grins wider, leaning into Megan even more.

Megan laughs helplessly, caught between the two of you. 

YOONCHAE IS SO REAL FOR THAT MARRIAGE IN SHAMBLES MEGAN LOOKS SO CONFUSED 😭 THIS LIVE IS UNHINGED NEW LOVE TRIANGLE 👀👀👀 

Daniela points at the screen. “Eyekons, clip this. Immediately.”

Megan finally manages to wriggle free, laughing as she reaches back for your hand anyway. “I’m married, not kidnapped.”

You squeeze her hand triumphantly. “See? Loyalty.”

Yoonchae groans dramatically and flops backward. “Wow. Love is fake.”

Manon laughs, clapping her hands once. “Okay guys, I think it’s our turn.”

She steps forward confidently, grabs the card, then immediately freezes.

“…Oh. Wait what”

Her brows knit together as she rereads it. Her smile slowly turns into a confused grimace.

“Wait,” she says, holding the card closer. “Why is this so… specific?”

Sophia leans in. “What is it?”

Manon looks up, genuinely distressed. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen this.”

The chat starts picking up on the hesitation:

UH OH SHE’S COOKED WHAT DID SHE GET

The timer starts anyway.

Manon tries, she really does. She crouches slightly, stiffens her arms, then perches awkwardly on the edge of the table, completely still. After two seconds she breaks character.

“No, no, pause—wait—time,” she blurts, laughing. “I don’t get it.”

Everyone loses it instantly.

Yoonchae bends over laughing. “You can’t call a timeout!”

Sophia wheezes. “That’s not a thing!”

You lean forward from the couch, already heckling. “There is no pause! Time my ass”

Megan nods seriously beside you. “Yeah, act it out Manon!”

Manon throws her head back. “This is not fair. This is a niche reference.”

Lara squints at her. “Is it… a gargoyle?”

Manon just stares. “What?”

MANON IS STRUGGLING 😭 ‘pause wait time’ LMAO Y/N HECKLING IS KILLING ME

Manon tries again, dramatically stands there and acts her best. Making herself small, whatever the note could be.

Sophia gasps. “OH—”

Daniela snaps her fingers. “ELF ON THE SHELF!”

The buzzer goes off.

Manon collapses, laughing. “Why is it called that? And how did you get it?”

You clap dramatically. “See? No pause needed.”

Megan grins. “You did great. Eventually.”

“Okay, okay—this is getting too chaotic,” Lara says, holding her hands up like she’s calling a truce. “I think we should go the calmer route and play some karaoke.”

There’s a collective pause.

“…Calmer?” Daniela repeats, already smiling like she doesn’t believe it.

Sophia perks up immediately. “Karaoke Christmas edition?”

“Yes,” Lara says firmly. “Before someone gets kidnapped again.”

Yoonchae gasps. “I would never.”

KARAOKE YES CALMER??? y/n karaoke pls SOPHIA PLS SING ARIANA!!!! IM BEGGING ON MY KNEES 

You glance at Megan, raising an eyebrow. “Are you volunteering?”

She laughs, nudging your knee with hers. “Only if you are.”

Yoonchae claps her hands excitedly, practically bouncing in her seat. “Wait—married duet. We have to.”

The chat instantly spikes again, flying faster than before:

DUET DUET DUET YOONCHAE IS LIKE THEIR CHILD HELP 😭 THIS IS NOT CALM WHY IS SHE SO EXCITED

You slowly turn your head toward Yoonchae, giving her the most exaggerated, sassy side-eye you can manage.

“Weren’t you,” you say sweetly, voice dripping with mock offense, “the one stealing my wife from me earlier?”

The room explodes.

Sophia lets out a scream-laugh. “OH—”

Daniela clutches her chest. “NOT THE CALLBACK.”

Megan immediately loses it, laughing so hard she has to lean forward, one hand covering her face. “You two are impossible.”

Yoonchae gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. “I was just borrowing!”

Megan looks between the two of you, still smiling, then gently pulls Yoonchae into a quick side hug. “Okay, okay—everyone calm down.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re taking her side?”

Yoonchae sticks her tongue out at you again, clearly proud of herself.

The comments roll in, half laughing, half screaming:

THIS FAMILY DYNAMIC YOONCHAE THIRD WHEELING HARD MARRIED BUT STILL CHAOS

Lara sighs, shaking her head but smiling as she sets up the karaoke track. “I regret suggesting something ‘calm.’”

You lean a little closer to Megan, angling your body so the mic doesn’t quite catch you. Your voice drops instinctively, softer than everything else happening in the room.

“I know you know this,” you murmur, eyes flicking over her, “but you look so gorgeous right now.”

Megan blinks, just for a second, caught off guard, then her smile turns shy in that way that never quite goes away, even after a year of marriage. Her fingers brush against yours, a light, grounding touch.

“You,” she whispers back, enunciating each word teasingly, “should. Look. At. Yourself.”

You laugh quietly, ducking your head.

But of course, the internet notices everything.

The chat starts reacting in real time, slightly delayed, slightly unhinged:

WAIT WHAT DID Y/N SAY THEY’RE WHISPERING 👀 MEGAN’S SMILE OMG WE JUST INTERRUPTED SOMETHING DIDN’T WE WHY AM I BLUSHING

Sophia squints at the two of you from across the room. “Why do you both look guilty?”

“Nothing,” Megan says quickly, still smiling.

You nod innocently. “Karaoke.”

No one believes you.

Lara finally looks up. “Alright. The song's ready.” She pauses, glancing between you and Megan. “You two first. Since you started this.”

The chat surges again:

DUET TIME THEY’RE BLUSHING HELP THIS IS TOO INTIMATE FOR A LIVE

Megan squeezes your hand once before standing, her smile steady now, confident. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s do it.”

You and Megan step a little closer together, sharing one mic. She glances up at you, amused. “Ready?”

You nod. “Always.”

The music swells, and you take the first line, voice soft and controlled, filling the room without trying to overpower it.

🎶 Last Christmas, I gave you my heart… 🎶

Megan comes in smoothly, harmonizing on the next line, her tone warm, familiar, like she’s been singing beside you forever.

🎶 But the very next day, you gave it away… 🎶

She laughs quietly at the irony, bumping your shoulder with hers as the chat starts to roll:

THE HARMONIES THEY SOUND SO GOOD TOGETHER WAIT THIS IS ACTUALLY REALLY PRETTY WHY AM I EMOTIONAL

By the chorus, you’re both smiling, no choreography, no performance faces, just two people singing something well-worn and loved.

🎶 This year, to save me from tears… 🎶

Megan looks at you when she sings it, not the camera. You follow her gaze instinctively.

🎶 I’ll give it to someone special… 🎶

The room is quiet now. Even the girls are still, watching with soft smiles, the fairy lights glowing gently behind you.

The chat slows, like people don’t want to break the moment:

THE WAY SHE LOOKED AT Y/N THIS FEELS TOO REAL MARRIED COUPLE ENERGY

As the song fades out, there’s a beat of silence, then applause, cheers, someone whooping off-camera.

Sophia wipes at her eyes. “Okay. That was not fair.”

Yoonchae claps aggressively. “Do another!”

Megan exhales a small laugh, squeezing your hand. “Karaoke,” she says. “Very calm.”

You grin, still a little breathless. “Extremely calm.”

The live keeps rolling, warmth settling over the room, the kind that lingers long after the song ends, like Christmas, like love, like something you don’t want to let go of. 

🏷️

"It's very beautiful over there." Those were the last words of the great Thomas Edison.

Most people indulge in chocolates or soft-serve sweets. I indulge in final breaths. Where others collect postcards or pressed flowers, I collect dying declarations.

Last words carry thousands, sometimes millions, of unspoken pieces.

They reveal who a person truly is when everything unnecessary falls away. It’s ironic, really. Knowing them now doesn’t benefit most people. They can’t save the speaker, can’t change anything.

At best, they’re just another fact to file away. A remembrance that summarizes a character.

But for me?

They meant everything. They encapsulate life. They leave me with conclusions where the world offered none.

Like the French poet François Rabelais, who died saying, "I go to seek a Great Perhaps."

A final whisper of pursuit, seeking the unknown, chasing a horizon I’ll never reach. It feels honest. It feels like life itself.

My obsession didn’t start from curiosity. It started the day my mother died. She left me with three words: “To be continued.” No context. No explanation. No chance to ask what she meant. Just that.

I was thirteen. And nothing prepares a thirteen-year-old for a mother stolen by an overdose accident. No one prepares for being handed grief without instructions.

Those words didn’t offer closure. They didn’t offer comfort. They didn’t teach lessons. They left gaps. Holes. A silence I’ve been trying to fill ever since. Why? Why those words? Why that ending? 

Maybe, just maybe, if I could understand the space between life and death, the way a person completes themselves down to a single sentence,I could understand her too. I could finish the song, close the book.

Maybe decoding everyone else’s last words would help me translate my mother’s.

And until then, I’m left chasing my own “Great Perhaps.”

That said,I know damn well the “Great Perhaps” is not waiting for me at a house party filled with sweaty teenagers, sticky floors, and beer that tastes like regret. And it’s definitely not hiding behind the wheel while I DD my neighbor as they get shit-faced drunk for the third time this month.

I’ve known Ava Lee Garcia since I was five, long before either of us knew what heartbreak tasted like, before the stress, the growing up, before everything.

Back then it was simpler.

Just me, her, Theo, and a cheap guitar in my dad’s garage, fingers blistering as I tried to copy the songs on the radio.

Ava always picked things up faster, strumming confidently while I fumbled with the chords. She’d laugh, nudge me with her shoulder, and say:

“Try again, Y/N. You’ve got this.”

Sometimes I think my entire personality was built around trying again.

I look at her now, eyeliner smudged, rings stacked on every finger and I realize she hasn’t changed much. Not where it matters.

"You’ve got to live a little," Ava says, pressing a red cup into my hand. The liquid inside sloshes. It smells like battery acid and bad decisions.

I eye it. “What is this?”

She shrugs. “Something that’ll make you stop overthinking for 5 minutes.”

I snort, but I don’t drink it. I never drink it.

You—reading this now—might think it’s cruel of Ava to pass me a drink, especially knowing my mother overdosed on this and a few other things. But that’s the part you don’t know. That no one knows.

The whole town knows the truth. Everyone except my dad.

Being practically tied at the hip with Ava and Theo, I never found the courage to say the words my mother died. I never corrected anyone when they said she left. Never flinched when people whispered that she’d gotten a divorce, that she wanted more, that she skipped across town chasing a better life.

They believe she chose to disappear.

It’s an open secret, one everyone agrees not to touch, like a cracked floorboard you learn to step over without looking down. And maybe it’s cowardly, but I let it happen.

Because if she left, then there’s no memory of my mother in the bathroom burned into me. No coroner’s voice. No pills rattling in a bottle like a warning no one heard in time. If she left, then the absence hurts, but it doesn’t kill.

People don’t ask questions when someone leaves. They do when someone dies.

So I let Ava hand me drinks I won’t touch. Let Theo joke about how “responsible” I am. Let teachers nod sadly and tell me how strong I must be, growing up with a single dad.

I smile. I nod. I accept the version of my life they can handle. It’s better this way.  At least, that’s what my dad and I tell ourselves.

I hand the red cup back. “Pass."

Ava rolls her eyes, but her smirk softens. “You’re no fun.”

She laughs, throwing an arm around my shoulders and pulling me deeper into the noisy, neon-washed chaos of the party. Her bracelets clatter against my collarbone, the sound bright and careless, everything I’m not.

Drowning in the crowd, I spot neighbor #2—Ava’s other half, the chaos to her curated recklessness.

Theo Lee Garcia.

In typical Theo fashion, he’s shirtless despite the cold, smoking two blunts like he’s been dared to by God Himself. He’s standing on a coffee table that definitely isn’t rated for this kind of abuse, shouting something.

He sees me and grins, the kind of grin that means trouble, the kind I’ve been cleaning up since sophomore year.

I swear I can already feel the impending headache forming behind my eyes.

Before he can drag me into whatever ritualistic stupidity he’s orchestrating, I pull myself back, letting the crowd swallow him whole.

Theo disappears into a wave of hands as his “bros” hoist him up like some shirtless, half-baked deity. He’s crowd surfing now, screaming something unintelligible and triumphant, both blunts still somehow intact.

I lean toward Ava and mutter, “I swear to God, this is why he was held back a year.”

She snorts, too loudly, because Ava has never understood the concept of subtlety. “Well, when I graduate this year,” she says, bumping my shoulder with hers, “you are officially in charge of keeping him in place.”

I drop my head back with a groan dramatic enough to rival Theo’s antics.

“Kill me now, please.”

Ava gives me a sympathetic pat on the back that is absolutely not sympathetic. It’s the kind of pat that says you’re screwed, bestie, while her eyes sparkle with mischief.

“Oh yeah? And what will your last words be?” she asks, way too cheerfully for someone watching her brother get waterboarded with cheap beer. She takes a slow sip of her mystery drink, leaning into me. “Come on, my little genius. Give me something poetic.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You want me to rehearse my dying declaration at a party?”

“Yes,” she says without a hint of irony. “I wanna know what you’d say if you dropped dead right now.”

I gesture vaguely toward the crowd where Theo is reenacting the fall of civilization. “Honestly? Probably something like: ‘Please tell Theo to stop.’”

Ava laughs loud, bright, the kind that makes people turn their heads.

She nudges me again. “No, seriously. What would it be?”

I look at her. Really look.

The constellation of freckles across her nose, the way she’s always half leaning on me like I’m the only stable object in a spinning world.

And for a second, the noise fades.

“I…”

I think deeply. If I died right now, here, like this—what would be left? What word could I leave behind that would sum me up, carve out some dignity, prove I was more than a background character in other people’s stories?

“I don’t know.”

The words feel small when I say them.

I let out a slow sigh. I can’t give her a real answer, not because I don’t care but because I haven’t lived long enough to earn one. I haven’t discovered myself enough to stand in front of the world and say, this is who I am and mean it.

I feel unfinished.

I feel like water, hiding behind the greats and their last words, letting borrowed wisdom guide the shape of my life. I can mold myself into any container handed to me. 

But standing there, with Ava waiting for an answer I don’t have, a thought settles heavy in my chest:

If I can become anything, follow any words of life —  am I actually living any of it?

Ava just give a light chuckle “Keep thinking, young buck, but I can tell you what theo’s last words will be; ‘Hold my blunt’” 

I laugh, just imagining him saying that. “Oh, that reminds me of some good ones,” I start, already slipping into my default mode, facts, quotes, the safe little world in my head. “Like British MP Lady Astor, ‘Am I dying or is it my birthday?’ It was not her birthday. Or Michael Jackso—”

“Okay, okay, we get it,” Ava cuts in, laughing. “You’re a nerd on the weirdest topic.”

I laugh with her warm, genuine until something in the corner of my eye shifts. My smile drops instantly.

Theo has climbed on top of a table, arms spread wide like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk on Bad Decisions. And then—oh God—he hooks his fingers into the waistband of his pants.

My heart stops. “Oh shit. AVA.”

Ava turns, following my line of sight. “Oh my fucking god.”

She shoves through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, except instead of holiness, she’s powered entirely by rage and sibling shame.

“THEO!” she yells, her voice slicing through the music. “Fucking—get down!”

Theo, wobbling like a newborn deer, beams at her and shouts, “AVA”

I wince, already imagining police reports, ER visits, maybe an obituary if gravity decides to be especially unforgiving tonight.

Ava reaches the table just as Theo starts to shimmy. I right behind her, praying to whatever cosmic power handles idiots.

This is my life.

Was this the Great Perhaps I were chasing? The ‘to be continued’ that my mom was envisioning?

Because if it was, it looked a whole lot like chaos, liability forms, and a half-naked teenage boy screaming on top of furniture.

After the whole debacle finally calmed down—and after Theo stopped insisting he was “ascending to godhood”—I drove the twins home. I always do. I live next door, and somehow that has permanently assigned me the role of chauffeur, babysitter, and unofficial Garcia-wrangler.

The car ride is the quietest it’s been all day.

Theo is slumped across the backseat, head resting on Ava’s thigh, mouth slightly open as he snores like a dying lawnmower.

Ava absentmindedly runs her fingers through his hair, humming softly along to the song on the radio. It’s gentle, almost nostalgic, nothing like the disaster I just escaped.

“Thanks again,” Ava says suddenly, cutting through the silence.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I reply, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Streetlights glide across the windshield like passing ghosts.

Ava sighs, deep and frustrated. “I swear to God, we need to fix his drinking problem this year. If we don’t, he’s gonna drink himself to death.”

I let out a quiet chuckle, not because it’s funny, but because if I don’t laugh, I might start worrying on her behalf. “Yeah.”

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter.

I’ve never really understood why I ended up hanging around the twins. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t fate. It wasn’t some childhood prophecy.

It just… happened.

One day, two kids with matching last names appeared in the doorway like chaos and sunshine incarnate.

Ava with her loud laugh, paint-stained hands, and with her big toothy smile.

Theo with grass in his hair, a bruised knee, and enough reckless energy to power a small city.

And then there was me. Quiet. Awkward. Bookish. Obsessed with the weirdest things.

The twins were everything I wasn't.

And maybe that’s why they became my everything.

I ease the car into the driveway, headlights washing over the familiar garage door. The engine hums to a stop, but neither of them moves. Ava’s head is tilted against the window, mouth slightly open, eyeliner smudged from the chaos of the night. Theo is still sprawled across the backseat, one arm dangling off like a dead Victorian child in a painting.

For a moment, I just… sat there.

The calm after the storm. The kind of quiet I never get at parties, or in crowds, or even in my own head.

Ava’s face in sleep is softer, less cynical. Theo’s is peaceful, the kind of peaceful he never lets himself be when he’s awake.

I debate letting them stay like this. Just a few more seconds. A breath of stillness I didn’t know I needed.

Then I exhale and lean over, tapping Ava’s shoulder gently.

“We’re here.”

She grumbles something into the window, blinking awake like someone resurrecting from the dead.

I twist in my seat, bracing a hand on the headrest.

“Theodore Lee Garcia,” I say with the firm authority of a fed-up mother in a sitcom, “wake up.”

Theo snorts himself awake so violently I nearly jump.

Both of them stir at once, Ava rubbing her eyes, Theo blinking like a confused golden retriever.

Ava looks at me, messy-haired and half-asleep. “You drive like a grandpa,” she mutters.

“Oh well, you can tell me that when you finally pass your drivers test” I shoot back.

Theo lifts his head, squinting at the house. “Home?”

“Yes, genius,” Ava says, patting his cheek. “Home.”

The three of you sit there in the quiet driveway, the world finally still, the chaos of the night behind me.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning light leaks through my blinds in thin, golden lines, soft enough to pretend it’s gentle, bright enough to remind me it’s Monday.

I blink awake slowly, the remnants of last night clinging to me like fog. I breathe out. Another day.

I move through my morning routine on autopilot, shower, brush teeth, tie hair back, school uniform slightly crooked until I fix it in the mirror.

My room is quiet, the whole house usually is. In the kitchen, I crack eggs into a pan, toast bread, and slice fruit. Two plates: one for me, one for my dad.

He’s still asleep,he usually is at this hour after late shifts, so I leave his breakfast covered on the counter, with a little sticky note:

Eat before it gets cold. (...please.)

I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and step outside.

The morning air greets me with a cool kiss, and I inhale deeply. My bike sits by the gate, a little rusty, the paint chipped, but it works.

I hop on, push off the pavement, and let the downhill slope pull me forward. 

I looked over the Garcia house to see the twins' window shut, they were probably sleeping, still hung over from yesterday.

-------

The auditorium is mostly empty, lit only by the stage lights that hum faintly overhead.

Sophia stands center stage, script in hand, voice soft but steady as she works through her lines for the spring musical, every gesture precise, every inflection practiced.

She’s always the last one to leave rehearsals, perfecting moments no one else even notices. Dani lounges across three seats in the front row, scrolling on her phone, glancing up every now and then with a small grin. “You sound good, Soph,” she calls, kicking her feet up. “You always sound good”

Sophia starts the monologue once more, but the sudden blare of the passing-period bell slices through the silence.

Both girls groan. Dani hops up, grabbing her bag, while Sophia hurriedly gathers her script, muttering, “We were just getting to the good part.”

They bolt out of the auditorium, sprinting down the hall as Daniela was pushing past the sea of freshman, just in time to crash straight into you rounding the corner on your way to class. Paper scatters, someone curses, and Sophia stumbles, practically landing against Daniela.

“Sorry! Sorry—” Sophia blurts, cheeks pink as she hands you a notebook that somehow ended up beneath her shoe.

“It’s fine,” you say, already backing up because your homeroom teacher will murder you if you’re late again.

Sophia watches you disappear down the hallway before Dani tugs her wrist. “Come on, Julliard. Homeroom.”

A minute later, the two of them slide into their seats, Dani slumping back, Sophia sitting a little too straight, tapping her script against her knee. She’s barely listening to morning announcements.

She’s still thinking about the way you apologized, soft, quick, familiar and how it felt hearing your voice up close again after all these years.

---

You might be thinking, I woke up and showed up on time.

Why in the good heavens am I late?

Well it's obviously  not because I overslept, not because I forgot my bag, but because Luke and a couple of the football idiots cornered me by the vending machines demanding the answer sheets I promised them.

"answers, You got them" They whisper with a smirk, as if they are passing dope around.

I handed them over — for cash, obviously — and then immediately regretted it when Luke started bragging loudly about how “even the nerd has our backs.”

Great. Exactly the reputation I wanted. 

So now I’m speed-walking down the hall, clutching my books, praying Mr Johnson had morning coffee and won’t take my head off for being late. I turn the corner— and crash straight into someone.

My notebook goes flying, her script slips from her hands, and the world tilts. I drop to a crouch to grab my things at the same time she does, and our fingers brush.

Just barely.

But it’s enough to short-circuit my entire brain.

Sophia.

Of course it’s Sophia.

Her eyes meet mine, warm brown, startled, familiar in the way childhood memories are familiar. I swear the hallway noise dips for half a second, like the universe hit pause just to mess with me.

“S-sorry,” she sputtered, handing me the notebook she stepped on.

I shake her head quickly, hair brushing my cheeks. “No, no — it’s fine.”

Sophia.

She really is a catch.

I’ve had a crush on her since freshman yearn since the first musical I ever watched. Macbeth. She played Lady Macbeth, all steel and fire and quiet madness, and something in me cracked open. I remember sitting there in the dark, hands clenched in my lap, realizing my life had shifted without asking my permission.

Suddenly, I wanted everything about her.

What she hated.  What scared her. What she loved. What her favorite food was. If she had any secreted talents. How she likes her coffee

Who she was when no one was watching.

“I’ll finally get to see Marilyn.” The last words of Joe DiMaggio.

A man who loved Marilyn Monroe until the very end—through the breakup, through her marrying someone else, through years of distance and damage and silence. Love that didn’t expire just because it wasn’t returned the way he wanted.

That was the love I was chasing.

The kind that stays. The kind that doesn’t bargain or bend or ask to be chosen. Being so head over heels for someone that even the end of the world wouldn’t make you look away.

The kind of love that sounds romantic until you realize how lonely it is.

By the time I slide into homeroom — breathless, late, and earning the usual glare from my teacher.

But who cares? She's all I can think about. Sophia. 

The girl who somehow gets prettier every year.

I stare at my desk, replaying that moment in the hallway again and again, fingers tingling like her touch left an imprint.

I’m so screwed.

—--

The rest of the day passes in a blur.

Not the dramatic kind, no swelling music, no catastrophic moments, just a quiet, hollow fog where time slips through my fingers without leaving a mark.

I answer questions automatically. Take notes I won’t remember writing. Nod at things people say without hearing them. My body goes through the motions while my mind stays somewhere else entirely. Math bleeds into history. History bleeds into science. Pages turn. Pens scratch. Bells ring.

I don’t notice any of it.

It’s like watching myself from underwater, everything muted and slow, my thoughts drifting in lazy circles that never quite land on anything solid. 

I’m just… blank. Empty in a way that isn’t peaceful, just numb.

Maybe it's the silent realization that I can’t do anything about it. Liking a girl for 3 years straight with barely any contact. It's truly pathetic and I can’t fathom how to understand anything.

At some point, someone bumps my chair. I mutter an apology. I don't remember the meaning. At another point, the teacher says my name, and I respond before realizing I’ve been called on.

Then,

The lunch bell rings. Sharp. Sudden. Jarring.

Dismissed.

I blink at the clock, genuinely surprised to see how much time has passed. Half the day, gone. Just like that. I gather my things slowly, hands moving on muscle memory alone, backpack slung over my shoulder without thought.

Another day half lived.

Another stretch of time I won’t remember. And as I stand, the thought finally resurfaces, quiet but insistent, like a bruise I forgot was there.

Sophia.

Lunch means hallways. Hallways mean people. And people mean the possibility of running into her again.

My stomach twists.

I swallow, straighten my shoulders, and step into the current of bodies pouring out of the classroom—still numb, still drifting, still pretending I‘m not bracing myself for impact.

I go to lunch like I always do. Theo and Ava aren’t there, probably in an empty classroom - debriefing without me- or cutting class like they own the concept of time, so I drift through the cafeteria alone, trayless, unnoticed.

The room hums with noise: plastic chairs scraping, laughter bouncing off tile, the sharp smell of fries and something vaguely chemical pretending to be pizza.

I chose the corner table by the windows. I always do.

It’s far enough from the center that no one accidentally sits with me, close enough to the wall that I can disappear if I need to.I slide my backpack onto the seat beside me, pull out my laptop, and open the document that’s been living rent-free in my head for months.

My novel. The cursor blinks at me like it’s waiting for permission. I started typing anyway.

Words come easier than thoughts. Easier than feelings. Sentences stack quietly on the screen, measured, careful, controlled. Fiction is kinder than reality. In fiction, I decide when things end. I decide what words people get to leave behind. 

I was halfway through a paragraph when something shifted. Not sound. Not movement.

Pressure.

I don’t even have to look up to know.

Across the cafeteria, Sophia’s table has gone quiet in that subtle, conspiratorial way, forks pausing mid-air, heads angling just enough to stare without staring. Daniela leans in, whispering something I can’t hear. Megan’s gaze flicks from Sophia to me, sharp and assessing, before she schools her face into something unreadable.

Sophia sits frozen for a second.

Then she looks.

Not casually. Not accidentally.

Directly at me. 

My fingers are still on the keyboard. The cursor blinking. The distance between the tables was suddenly too small, too loud.

Her expression is soft, curious, maybe uncertain. There’s something else there too, something that twists in my chest. Recognition. Memory.

Like she’s piecing something together she didn’t know she was missing.

there, solid, unyielding. Untouchable.

The air thickens. It catches in my throat, makes breathing feel like a conscious effort. I don’t know what compels me to do it, but I offer a weak smile and lower my head, retreating into the safety of the screen.

Coward.

When I look back up, the moment is gone.

Out of nowhere Ava is walking toward Megan, Sophia’s attention drifting back to the group , laughter already spilling from her lips, her entire body language softening in a way it only ever does around her. Those damn lovebirds.

I exhale slowly, fingers hovering over the keys again.

The cursor still blinks.

Waiting for me to decide whether I’m going to write about the moment I just lived through, or pretend it never happened at all.

Megan and Ava have been dating since freshman year. A solid three years.

By now, you’d think I’d be part of their group, woven into the background of their inside jokes, their shared glances, their easy certainty. I’m always around, always welcome in theory.

But I never had the courage.

Courage to sit at their table without an excuse. Courage to speak without rehearsing first. Courage to exist without making myself small.

They make love look effortless. Public, unapologetic, real. And every time I see them together, I’m reminded of how badly I want that kind of belonging, and how convinced I am that it’s something meant for other people.

So I stay where I always am: close enough to watch, far enough to disappear.

Safe

----------------

“You’re really staring at her again?” Daniela laughs, lightly smacking Sophia’s arm.

“No,” Sophia laughs back, a little too quickly. “Stop, Dani. It’s not like that.”

She pauses anyway. Her eyes drift—not obvious, but intentional.

“Hey, Ava?”

Ava looks up, smiling, one arm still wrapped comfortably around Megan. “What’s up, Soph?”

Sophia hesitates, brows knitting together just slightly. “Why does she always sit alone?”

Ava blinks. “Huh?”

“You guys grew up together, right?” Sophia continues, voice gentle, sincere. “Do you ever invite her to sit with us?”

For a split second, Ava doesn’t answer.

Not because she doesn’t know—but because the truth is heavier than it looks.

Ava follows Sophia’s gaze across the room. You’re hunched over your laptop, shoulders curved inward, like you’re trying to fold yourself into the smallest possible shape. The glow of the screen reflects faintly in your glasses. Focused. Removed. Somewhere else entirely.

Ava exhales softly.

“I guess…” she says slowly, choosing her words, “she likes working on her novel. She never complains about it.”

Sophia hums, unconvinced.

“That’s not really an answer,” Daniela mutters, but Sophia ignores her.

Sophia’s eyes stay on you. Thoughtful. Observant. Like she’s watching a door that hasn’t been opened yet.

Megan squeezes Ava’s hand gently, a silent question.

Ava shrugs, quieter now. “She’s always been like that. Doesn’t like being the center of things.”

That part is true.

What Ava doesn’t say, what she can’t say, is that you’ve always waited to be invited. And everyone else assumed you preferred the quiet.

Manon’s head snaps up immediately, eyes lighting with interest. “Ohhh, I see you, Sophia,” she says, grin sharp and knowing. “Finally doing something about it? Or is this just another one of your silent yearning sessions?”

Sophia groans. “Shut up, Manon. It’s not like that.”

“Really?” Manon tilts her head, appraising, gaze flicking back to you across the room. “Because honestly—clean her up a little, ditch the sweats, maybe some eyeliner? I’d totally go for her.” She smiles wickedly.

Then, deliberately, Manon starts to stand.

Slow. Teasing. Like she’s doing it just to prove a point.

Sophia reacts instantly.

Her hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around Manon’s wrist, stopping her mid-rise.

“Don’t” Sophia says quietly. “Please”

Not sharp. Not loud.

But firm enough that Manon freezes.

Manon looks down at Sophia’s hand, then back up at her face. One eyebrow lifts. “Wow,” she says softly. “Okay. That’s new. So… you’re really not interested?”

Sophia’s jaw tightens. “Manon.”

There’s a warning in her voice now, quiet, but unmistakable.

Lara laughs under her breath. “You’re impossible.”

Manon raises her hands in mock surrender, still smirking. “What? I’m just saying. She’s got potential. Broody writer type. Very tragic.”

Sophia doesn’t laugh.

Her eyes stay fixed on you, on the way you’re hunched over your laptop, oblivious, fingers flying like you’re trying to outrun something. Her expression softens again, irritation melting into something else. Something private.

“It’s not that,” Sophia says finally. “She doesn’t need to change anything.”

That shuts Manon up.

Ava notices. She looks between Sophia and you, a subtle tension pulling at her mouth. Megan leans closer to Ava, murmuring something no one but Megan can hear.

Sophia exhales, quieter now, more to herself than anyone else. “I was just saying, she just looks… alone.”

And for the first time, instead of watching from a distance, Sophia shifts in her seat.

Like she’s getting ready to stand. 

But she’s a coward too. 

Always too scared to make a move.

Always waiting for you to do something. But you never do.

-Flashback 11 years ago- 

The park was louder back then. Rusty swings screaming with every arc, the gravel biting into bare knees, the air thick with the smell of sunscreen and cut grass.

Sophia was smaller. So were you.

She was sitting on the edge of the sandbox, legs tucked in, hands wrapped around her favorite toy, a little plastic ballerina with a chipped pink tutu. She’d brought it everywhere that summer.

A shadow fell over her.

Three middle schoolers. Big voices. Bigger confidence.

“Hey, what’s that?” one of them said, already reaching.

“Give it back,” Sophia protested, standing too fast.

They laughed. One of them yanked the toy from her hands and tossed it between the others like a game.

“Stop,” she said again, voice shaking now.

You were a few feet away, building something disastrous out of sticks with Ava and Theo when you noticed. The way Sophia’s shoulders curled inward. The way her hands balled into fists like she was trying not to cry.

You didn’t think.

You never did back then.

You dropped the sticks and ran.

“Hey,” you said, planting yourself in front of them, voice high and wavering but loud enough. “Give it back.”

They looked at you. Then at each other.

And laughed.

One of them shoved you. Hard.

You hit the ground, palms scraping against the gravel. Pain flared sharp and sudden. Another shove to your shoulder for good measure.

“Mind your business, freak.”

They tossed the ballerina onto the sand and walked off, still laughing.

Your knees burned. Your hands stung. But you scrambled up anyway, grabbing the toy and brushing sand off it with shaking fingers.

Sophia ran to you.

You smiled passing her the toy “This is yours right? Here”

“You’re reckless,” she scolded immediately, grabbing your arms to inspect the damage. “And stupid. They were bigger than you.”

You looked at your scraped hands, then up at her.

And smiled. A wide, toothy grin, missing one of your front teeth.

Sophia blinked. “Why are you smiling? You got hurt.”

You shrugged like it didn’t matter. Like it never did.

“My mom always told me,” you said, a little breathless, “that you can smile through anything.”

Sophia stared at you. 

At the blood on your palms. At the dirt on your knees. Anyway, you smiled.

Something in her chest shifted, quiet, permanent, undeniable.

That smile.

That's stupid confidence.

That was the moment.

The moment Sophia Laforteza fell for you.

“Thank you for helping,”  She whispered.

-Flashback over-

School ends in a blur of lockers slamming and shoes squeaking against linoleum. By the time I make it to the tutor center, the sun is already slanting low through the windows, painting the tables gold and tired. 

Tommy Hale is waiting for me, slouched in his chair, foot bouncing like he’s plugged into an outlet. Physics notebook open. Absolutely untouched. I always wonder why on god's green earth were you assigned to tutor this dumbass. 

I sit across from him, setting my bag down. “Alright,” I say. “Vectors. What’s tripping you up?”

He opens his mouth. Then close it.

Then sighs. “Okay, don’t be mad.”

I already regret this. That face I just know he is about to say the dumbest shit ever.

“What?” I ask, my face deadpanned.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Can you… help me write something?”

I blink, confused. “For physics? English? What subject, Prince charming be specific here”

“I don’t like the way you say prince charming by the way He says 

“Oh my god, just straight to the point, Dimples, I don’t have all day” I sighed so visibly loud. 

I don’t mean to be obnoxious and everything but I just don’t have the energy to deal with his bull crap right now.

“Its…Its for a girl.”

I stare at him. What. The. Actually.

“No,” I said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” he groans, leaning forward. “Please. You’re good with words.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” I say. “This is a tutor center, not Cyrano de Bergerac.”

He presses his palms together like he’s praying. “I really like her. And I don’t want to mess it up.”

I hesitate.

Not because I care, but because there’s something painfully earnest in his voice. Something un-Tommy-like. The guy who has everything handed to him. Dating girls left and right, is begging me to write a love letter for him.

Still, I shake my head. “Dude, the entire school likes you. Mr. Popular doesn’t need love letters to score a date.”

He scoffs. “That’s the thing. This girl’s different.”

I breath out sarcastically. “Yes, Yes, They’re always different.”

“No,” he insists. “I tried the normal way. Talking. Joking. Being… me.” He gestures vaguely at himself. “She’s not interested.”

That gives me pause. I can only think of a few people that are, One: Single, Two: Into Guys, and Three: Not interested in Tommy Hale, The soccer captain, the golden, oh I can gag thinking about all the nicknames stuck onto him. 

I laugh it off anyway. “Then maybe take the hint?”

He shakes his head. “I heard from a friend that she likes romantic gestures. Like, big ones.”

My stomach drops. Now I can think of one person. 

Slow. Heavy.

“Who?” I ask, already knowing, I shouldn’t.

He hesitates. Just long enough.

“Sophia Laforteza.”

The name lands like a bruise.

“Oh,” I say, forcing a laugh that sounds wrong even to my own ears. “Yeah. Of course.”

Of course she’d like that.

Of course he’d be the one writing to her.

I look down at the blank page between me, the cursor blinking patiently, mockingly.

My head fills with everything and nothing at once. I know the math of it, I know I don’t have a chance. I know this isn’t some hidden path where things turn out differently. This is real life, and in real life, Sophia Laforteza doesn’t end up with girls like me.

But still.

Somewhere deep, stupid, and quiet, I’d always wanted to know her better. Not the version everyone sees. Just her. I’d carried the what-ifs around like contraband, never taking them out, never daring to look too closely.

And now here they were, dissolving.

Because she would like him. Because he makes sense.

…maybe this is…this is the closet I get. Maybe this is the loophole.

I swallow, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The screen is still blank, a white space waiting to be filled with something honest, something that isn’t mine to give.

“What do you even want to say to her?” I ask quietly.

Tommy brightens immediately, relief flooding his face. “I don’t know. That’s why I need you. You always know how to say things.”

I almost laughed at that. Almost.

“Why do you like her?” I ask instead, stalling. “Like—actually like.”

He shrugs, scratching his head. “She’s Pretty. And… different. She doesn’t care that I’m captain or whatever. She’s just—cool.”

That’s it. That’s all he’s got.  My chest tightens, something sharp and ugly twisting under my ribs. Of course. Of course that’s enough for him. Of course that’s all it takes to want someone like her.

I nod anyway. “Okay.”

I start typing.

The words come too easily. They always do. Soft sentences. Careful ones. The kind that linger. The kind that sounds like someone who notices things—like the way she listens when people talk, or how she never underestimates kindness, or how the world seems steadier when she smiles.

I don’t write it for Tommy. I write it as if I’m writing it to her. Every sentence is something I’ve already said in my head a thousand times. Every line feels like a confession I’m not brave enough to make out loud.

Tommy leans over my shoulder, grinning. “Damn,” he says. “That’s… really good.”

Yeah, I think. I know.

“What do you think?” he asks. “Is it too much?”

I shake my head. “No. She’ll like it.”

Because it’s everything I know she would.

Because it’s everything I wish I could be.

I hit save and slid the laptop toward him, my hands suddenly cold.

“Just… make sure you mean it,” I say.

He nods, all sincerity. “I do.”

And I believe him.

That’s the worst part.

Because we live in different worlds, him, with his easy smiles and endless chances, and me, hiding behind words that were never meant to be borrowed.

And somehow, even when I’m the one writing the love story,

I still don’t get to be in it, Cause I wrote myself out of it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, the hallway feels longer than usual.

Lockers slam, voices overlap, the smell of cheap coffee and perfume hangs in the air but I notice none of it. My eyes are fixed down the corridor, heart lodged somewhere in my throat.

And then I see her. Beautiful as always. But my mind is still replaying yesterday’s events. 

Sophia stands by her locker, sunlight from the high windows catching in her hair, making her look unreal in that unfair, effortless way she always does. Daniela is beside her, leaning against the lockers like she owns the place. Manon and Lara hover nearby, phones half-forgotten in their hands.

Tommy approaches from the opposite end.

I slow without realizing it, feet dragging as if my body is trying to give my mind time to catch up.

I shouldn’t watch but I do anyway.

Tommy clears his throat. I can almost hear him from here. He says her name. Sophia looks up, surprised but polite, that careful smile already in place.

He hands her the letter.

Just like that.

A folded piece of paper. My words, My handwriting. My thoughts, My love used to break my heart.

Sophia blinks, confused for half a second, then takes it. “Oh—um. Thank you.”

Tommy grins, rubs the back of his neck, mumbles something I can’t hear. Then he leaves, throwing me a quick look as he passes, excited, hopeful.

I stopped walking altogether.

Sophia opens the letter.

I see it happen in real time: the way her posture changes, the way her eyes slow as they move across the page. The hallway noise fades around her, like she’s stepped into a different world.

Daniela leans in. “What is it?”

Sophia doesn’t answer right away. She keeps reading.

Manon peers over her shoulder. “Is that—wait, is that from Tommy?”

Sophia nods absently, still focused.

Lara laughs softly. “I told you he had it in him.”

Something sharp twists in my chest.

Sophia finally looks up, brows slightly drawn together—not displeased. Thoughtful. Almost… moved.

“This is…” she trails off.

Daniela beams. “Good, right? I knew he’d surprise you.”

Sophia folds the letter carefully, fingers lingering on the crease. “It’s really beautiful,” she 

says slowly. “Just… unexpected.”

Manon tilts her head. “Unexpected how?”

Sophia hesitates. “It feels… personal. I didn't know he could write like this...it's really...deep.”

My breath catches.

Daniela squeals quietly. “Oh my god. That’s so romantic.”

Lara nudges Sophia. “You should give him a chance. At least one date.”

Sophia glances down at the letter again. For a moment, her eyes flicker, uncertain, searching, like she’s trying to place a feeling she doesn’t have a name for.

Then she nods. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Maybe I should.”

My  chest tightens.

The bell rings, sharp and unforgiving, snapping the hallway back into motion. Sophia and her friends move off together, still talking, still smiling.

She tucks the letter into her bag like it’s something precious.

I stand there a moment longer than I should. Watching the girl I love fall for my words, just not my name.

The bell finishes ringing, and I’m still standing there when a hand slams into my shoulder.

Hard.

“What the hell—”

I barely have time to turn before someone shoves me again, this time steering, corralling. Fingers dig into the fabric of my hoodie. I stumble, shoes squeaking uselessly against the floor.

“Hey—Hey—stop—”

A door swings open. I’m pushed inside. The room smells like dust and old metal, an unused equipment storage room, lights flickering weakly overhead. The door slams shut behind me with a sound that echoes too loud in the small space.

Luke. James. Cam. Football jackets. Smug faces. The kind of boys who walk the halls like they own them.

Luke crosses his arms, jaw tight. “You think you’re funny?”

My heart pounds, but my voice stays flat. Quiet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

James laughs, sharp and humorless. “Physics. Yesterday. Answer sheet.”

Cam steps closer, invading my space. I can smell his cologne, cheap, aggressive. “You gave us the wrong one.”

I swallow. Of course it was them. I’d mixed the sheets on purpose, just a few wrong answers slipped in. Insurance. I’d always done that. I never expected these dumbass to get A+—

Luke shoves me back into a shelf. Metal rattles. My shoulder burns. “You cost us a test,” he snaps. “Coach’s pissed.”

“I didn’t force you to cheat,” I say before I can stop myself. That’s the wrong thing to say.

Cam scoffs. “Listen to the nerd.”

James grabs my backpack and dumps it onto the floor. Papers scatter. A notebook slides open, pages filled with cramped handwriting, lyrics, half-finished poems.

Luke kicks it aside. “You think you’re better than us?”

"I'm just smart enough to know that you aren't getting above a C-"

Another shove. I stumble, catch myself on the wall, chest tight, breath shallow. I don’t fight back. I never do. Fighting just makes it worse.

A punch lands, more force than precision, knocking the air out of me. My vision spots. 

“Don’t fuck this up” James says. Landing another punch “It was that simple"

The door opens again, suddenly. 

“Hey!” A voice cuts through the room. Tommy.

Luke turns. “Mind your business, Hale.”

Tommy’s face is red, furious in a way I rarely see. He steps between me and them without hesitation. “Get out.”

Cam laughs. “Really, Theo, Her?”

Tommy doesn’t answer. He just stands there, solid, unyielding. Untouchable.

There’s a tense beat. Then Luke scoffs. “Whatever. Not worth it.”

They shove past Tommy on the way out, shoulders colliding on purpose. The door slams again, leaving silence behind.

My knees feel weak. I slid down the wall, sitting on the cold floor, hands shaking despite myself.

Tommy turns to me, anger melting into something softer. “Are you okay?”

I nod automatically. Lie automatically.  “Yeah.”

I look away, staring at the scattered pages on the floor. My words. My work. Stepped on.

“I don’t need you saving me,” I say quietly. “It just makes it worse.”

Tommy opens his mouth, then closes it. He doesn’t understand, but he nods anyway.

As I gather my things, my hands tremble, adrenaline still buzzing under my skin. And all I can think is this, I gave him the words that made her heart flutter. And this is the price I pay for staying invisible.

By the time lunch rolls around, the bruise on my shoulder has settled into a dull, persistent ache—no longer sharp, just constant, like something humming under my skin.

I duck into the bathroom before the cafeteria, lock myself in front of the mirror, and start cleaning myself up.

The fluorescent lights are unforgiving. They catch everything—the split skin on my lip, the purpling bruise blooming along my jaw. I dab at the dried blood with wet paper towels, hissing when it stings, shoulders tensing as I lean closer to the sink.

Focus. Just fix it. Get through the day.

“You good there?”

The voice comes from right beside me.

I jolt, eyes snapping up. I hadn’t even noticed someone else was there, too busy reconstructing my face.

Sophia stands at the sink next to mine, smiling softly at her reflection as she adjusts a strand of hair, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Oh—yeah,” I say quickly, giving her a smile that immediately pulls at the bruise. “I’m great.”

Sophia’s smile curves, amused but concerned. “Are you really smiling with a bruised face?”

I shrug, embarrassed. “You can smile through anything.”

Her expression stills.

Just for a second.

Then she smiles again, softer this time, like she’s remembering something. “Yeah,” she says quietly.

I look over at her with my bruised face “Hey—can you pass me a tissue?” Pointing at the dispenser.

She shakes her head immediately. “No, not those. Wait.”

She opens her purse, rifling through it before pulling out a small packet of pocket tissues. “Here,” she says, handing it to me like it’s a secret.

Of course she carries her own.

She steps closer, eyes narrowing slightly as she looks at my face. Too close. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo, something clean and faintly sweet. She slowly gets ready to leave, giving me a small smile “Good luck there, Rocky”

A voice in my head screams. Say something. Don’t let her walk away. This might be the last time I ever get to talk to her. Just anything. 

I take a breath. “Um—do you… have any makeup?”

She turns and tilts her head. “Makeup?”

“Yeah,” I say, gesturing vaguely at my face. “Just—so it’s less… this.”

Understanding clicks instantly.

“Oh,” she smiles. “Yeah. I’ve got you.”

My heart stutters.

“Sit,” she says, nodding toward the counter. “It’ll be easier.”

I hop up, legs dangling slightly, trying very hard not to look like I might pass out. She steps between me and the sink, setting her bag down, completely unfazed by how close she is now.

She works carefully, methodically, dabbing concealer, blending gently, pausing every time I flinch.

“Does that hurt?” she asks softly.

“Only a little,” I lied.

Her fingers are warm. Steady. She concentrates like this matters, like I matter. 

“There,” she says after a moment, leaning back to examine her work. “Much better.”

I look in the mirror.

The bruises are still there, but softened, hidden just enough. When I look back at her, she’s already smiling, proud in a quiet way.

“Thank you,” I say, voice barely above a breath.

She shrugs lightly. “Anytime.”

And for a moment, just one fragile, stolen moment, the world feels smaller. 

Quieter. Like maybe this is something worth holding onto.

------------

After school, the weight in my chest eases just a little. Smiling thinking about today. Just that moment replaying in my mind. 

I walked toward the parking lot with Ava and Theo, backpacks slung low, the sky washed in late-afternoon gold. Theo’s rambling about some obscure chord progression he swears changed his life, while Ava hums under her breath, fingers tapping an invisible fretboard against her thigh.

“I’m telling you,” Theo says, animated, “if you layer it under the bridge, it’ll sound insane.”

I nod, half-listening. “I found something similar in the music room. Old sheet music. The lyrics were trash, but the melody—”

“You’re both wrong,” Ava cuts in, smirking. “It needs space. Let it breathe.”

I was about to argue when—“YO!”

I barely have time to react before a blur of energy barrels toward me. Tommy. He skids to a stop, breathless, phone clutched in his hand like it’s holy scripture. His face is split by the widest grin I’ve ever seen.

“She texted me,” he blurted out.

Sophia.

He shoves the phone in my face. A single message glows on the screen.

Hey! I read your letter. It was really sweet. I didn’t expect it—but thank you :)

Tommy looks like he might levitate. “She liked it. She actually liked it.”

Theo’s smile disappears.

“Hey Tommy,” he says flatly, already stepping back. “I—I forgot something. I’ll catch you guys later.”

“Oh. hey” Tommy smiles but Theo was already gone, before he could really respond.

I blink, confused, watching him retreat. That’s weird. Theo never just… leaves.

Ava notices too. Her eyes flick to Theo’s back, then to me. She hesitates, then clears her throat.

“I’ll go make sure he doesn’t trip into traffic,” she says lightly. “Text me later, yeah?”

She squeezes my arm before walking off, deliberately slow, giving my space I didn’t ask for.

It’s just me and Tommy now. He looks at me, still grinning. “Okay. What should I say back?”

I stare at the phone like it’s a live wire. “Tommy,” I say carefully, “I did my part. The letter was the help. This is… you.”

He winces. “I know, I know, but—” He drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t wanna mess it up.”

I exhale. Of course he doesn’t.

“Just be yourself,” I offer weakly.

He makes a face. “That’s what I’m scared of.”

I close my eyes for half a second. Losing my power and mind. Being delusional over a 5 minute interaction but she is head over heels for him. 

“Please,” he says. “Just help me respond. One text. That’s it. I swear.”

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.

But he’s looking at me like I’ll always save him. Like I own him this. And maybe Sophia deserves this.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Give me the phone.”

Tommy lights up immediately, handing it over.

My thumbs move fast, muscle memory takes over before my heart can catch up. I keep it short. Gentle. 

I’m really glad you read it. If you’d like, maybe we could go out some time, no pressure. Coffee this Friday?

I hand the phone back, chest tight. “Send that.”

He reads it once. Twice.

“That’s perfect,” he says, “Thanks”

Before I can stop him, he hits send. Three dots appear almost instantly.

My breath catches.

Then:

I’d like that. Friday sounds good :)

Tommy lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a shout, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me like he’s just won the lottery. “Shit, man. You’re a genius.”

I force a smile, because that’s what I do. Because it’s easier than explaining the knot in my chest, easier than saying this isn’t really mine to celebrate.

But his hands tighten. Right on the bruise. Pain flares white-hot.

“Ah—let go—ouch,”I gasp, twisting away. “You got me.”

Tommy freezes instantly. “Oh shit—my bad.” He releases me like I’ve burned him, eyes dropping to my face, concern flashing through the grin. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say quickly, rolling my  shoulder, even though it still throbs. “I’m fine.”

“Anyways, Friday,” he says, still buzzing. “I’m taking Sophia Laforteza on a date.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

Friday.

As he walks backward toward his car, still staring at his phone, I stand there rooted to the pavement, the echo of his happiness ringing in my ears.

I did exactly what he asked.

I get into my car and turn the engine on. The radio crackles to life, some half-familiar indie song I’ve probably overanalyzed in an English essay at some point. I don’t change it. I don’t really hear it either. It just exists in the background, a ghost of sound.

I sat there. Hands on the steering wheel. Knuckles pale. Chest tight, like something heavy is pressing down from the inside.

Friday. The word loops in my head like a bad chorus. Friday. Friday. Friday.

I pull out of the parking lot, tires humming against the asphalt, the school shrinking in the rearview mirror. Lockers, hallways, Sophia’s smile in the bathroom mirror, it all collapses into a blur. Houses streak past. Stop signs. Bare trees clawing at the sky. Everything feels slightly tilted, like I’m watching my life through scratched glass.

I grab my phone. Theo doesn’t just leave. Not like that. I called him once.

Straight to voicemail. Again. Nothing.

My jaw clenches. I switch lanes too fast, earning a honk. I barely registered. I tried Ava. It rings this time.

“Hey,” she answers. Her voice is light—but wrong. Too light. Like she’s propping it up with both hands.

“Where are you?” I ask, already turning the wheel harder than necessary.

There’s a pause. Wind rushes through the speaker. I hear the faint creak of metal—chains.

“…We’re at the park,” she says finally. “Across from school.”

My grip tightens. “Stay there.”

“Ca—”

I hang up before she can finish.

The park comes into view less than a minute later. Rusted swings, faded slides, the same chipped bench we’ve sat on a hundred times since we were kids. I pull up too fast, brakes screeching softly as I park crookedly along the curb.

They’re exactly where she said they’d be.

Theo is slouched on the swing, feet dragging lazy lines into the dirt, head tipped back like he’s staring at the sky, or avoiding everything else. Ava stands nearby, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one hip, jaw set tight.

I cut the engine and stepped out.

Neither of them looks surprised to see me.

“Get in,” I say flatly.

Theo doesn’t move.

Ava sighs. “Hey. Don’t start.”

“Please,” I beg. “I’m leaving. And I need you guys to get in.”

Theo finally looks at me then. His eyes are glassy, not drunk, not high. Just… distant. Like he’s miles away.

“You good?” I ask, softer now despite myself.

He scoffs, kicking at the ground. “Yeah. I’m great. Just watching the world burn.”

“Don’t do that,” Ava says sharply. “Don’t be dramatic.”

Theo laughs, short and humorless. “Oh, so when she spirals it’s poetic, but when I do it—”

“Get in the car,” I repeat, voice low. Not angry. Controlled. Dangerous in the way that comes from holding too much in.

Theo studies me for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he pushes himself off the swing and walks toward the car. Ava follows, shooting me a look that says later.

We pile in.

No music. No talking.

The car pulls away from the park, the swings creaking behind us in the wind, still moving long after no one’s there to push them.

And I don’t know why, but I get the sinking feeling that this, this quiet, this tension, this almost-something is the beginning of everything unraveling.

No one speaks.

The park disappears in the rearview mirror, the swings still swaying long after we’ve left, empty, restless, like they don’t know when to stop.

After a minute, I glance at Ava. “What was that?”

She keeps her eyes on the window. “Nothing.”

I scoff softly. “It wasn’t nothing.”

Theo shifts in the backseat, leather creaking under him. “Drop it.”

My grip tightens on the steering wheel. “I’m not trying to start something. I just—” I exhale. “You walked away. That’s not like you.”

Theo lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Funny. Seems like people are doing a lot of things they don’t usually do lately.”

Ava turns sharply. “Theo.”

I swallow. The road stretches out in front of us, familiar cracks in the pavement passing by like old scars. “Is this about Tommy?”

Silence.

The kind that presses in on your ears.

Theo doesn’t answer.

Which is answer enough.

I keep my eyes forward. “I was helping him,” I say quietly. “That’s it.”

“Yeah,” Theo says. Flat. Sharp. “Helping him get the girl you’ve been in love with since forever.”

Ava inhales sharply. “Theo—”

“No,” he cuts in. “Someone had to say it.”

My chest tightens, air suddenly hard to come by. I don’t argue. I don’t defend myself. There’s no point. The truth sits heavy between us, undeniable.

Ava leans her head against the window, voice softer now. Tired. “You’re allowed to want things too, you know.” A beat. “I’m talking to the both of you.”

The words land harder than the punches from earlier. Harder than the bruise blooming under my jacket.

I turn onto our street, the sun dipping low behind the houses, casting long shadows across the road. Everything looks the same as it always has, mailboxes, driveways, trees we grew up under.

The car keeps moving.

By the time we’re back at the twin’s house, the air feels indifferent, the truth layered within it. 

Ava's room has warm fairy lights pinned crookedly along the walls, some sagging, some barely holding on. Posters curl at the corners. Guitars lean against every available surface, abandoned mid-thought, mid-feeling.

This is where I breathe easier.

I sit cross-legged on the floor, bass resting against my knee. Changing into something more comfortable, more casual.

Ava perches on her bed with her guitar, curls tucked behind her ear, already half lost in the rhythm. Theo lounges near the window, hoodie half-zipped, foot tapping an uneven beat against the wall.

“Okay,” Ava says, strumming lightly. “From the top. The bridge needs more space.”

I nod and play.

The notes come out low and steady, grounding in the way only muscle memory can be. My fingers move without asking permission. For a few minutes, everything clicks. The bruise fades. The tension loosens. Music gives me that mercy, it lets me exist without explaining myself.

Theo hums along at first.

Then I hear it.

The soft, unmistakable flick of a lighter.

I look up just in time to see Theo lifting a blunt to his lips.

Ava reacts instantly.

“Oh, hell no.”

She lunges forward and smacks it straight out of his hand. It hits the floor, the ember dying with a hiss.

“Are you serious?” she snaps. “Inside my room?”

Theo groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Jesus, Ava. I’m stressed.”

“So are we,” she fires back. “You don’t see us hotboxing my childhood bedroom.”

I stay quiet, bass strings still vibrating faintly beneath my fingers, the note dying too slowly.

Theo slumps back against the wall, jaw clenched. “Whatever.”

A few minutes pass. We try to start again, but the song never quite finds its footing. Theo’s eyes are glassy, hinting something more. 

Then he laughs. Soft. Bitter. “You know what I don’t get?”

Ava freezes mid-chord. “Theo.”

He ignores her, eyes locking onto me. “You always hated Tommy. Like—really hated him.”

I stiffen. “That’s not true.”

He scoffs. “You used to talk shit all the time. About how easy his life is. About how people just hand him things.”

“That was—” I stop myself. Swallow. “That was before.”

“Before what?” he pressed. “Before you started writing his love letters? Before he started talking to Sophia?”

Ava sets her guitar down hard. “Okay. Stop.”

“No,” Theo says, sitting up straighter now, sharp despite the haze. “I’m genuinely asking. When did you two become buddy-buddy?”

The bass feels heavier in my hands. “We’ve always been friends.”

“Bullshit,” Theo snaps. “You tolerated him. Now suddenly you’re bending over backward to help him get Sophia?”

Her name tightens something painful in my chest.

Ava looks between us, torn. “Theo, you’re not being fair.”

“I am,” he insists. “Because it’s always the same with them.” He gestures vaguely, like he means more than just Tommy. “They don’t have to try. And you—” His eyes burn into me. “You always let them get away with it”

Silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable.

I stare down at my bass, thumb tracing the worn edge of the pickguard, grounding myself.

“I didn’t do it for him,” I say quietly. The words sit there, fragile. “I did it because I thought… maybe this was the closest I’d ever get.”

“You’re a coward Y/N Y/LN” Theo said coldly

“I know” I whispered back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few months pass. Slowly. Quietly. Inevitably. By winter, it’s official, the it couple of the school.

Sophia Laforteza and Tommy Hale.

Their names get said together like a headline, like they were always meant to be paired. People smile when they pass in the halls. Teachers tease them. Friends nudge and whisper. It’s easy, effortless, and public.

And me?

I don’t do anything dramatic. I don’t cry in bathrooms or tear pages out of notebooks. I don’t confess. I don’t explode. I just… break. Quietly. On the inside.

So I do what I’ve always done.

I keep writing.

My novel gets thicker, heavier. Chapters stack up like proof that I still exist somewhere. Every feeling I can’t say out loud gets buried in metaphors and half-finished sentences, love, resentment, longing, all of it filtered into words that aren’t mine anymore.

Life keeps moving.

And somehow, because life has a cruel sense of humor, I start seeing Sophia more than ever.

Tommy likes me. Genuinely. He calls me one of his closest friends now, insists I sit with them at lunch, walk with them between classes, and hang out after school. He wants his worlds to overlap, his friends, his girlfriend, his life—everything neat and whole.

So I let it happen.

I sit at their table. I listen to Tommy talk about practice, about games, about Sophia like she’s something precious he still can’t believe he gets to hold. I laugh when I’m supposed to. I nod. I give advice when he asks.

Sophia is kind. She always has been.

She asks about my writing. Compliments my bass playing when she comes to watch Ava and me rehearse. Sometimes she looks at me a second too long, like she’s trying to remember something she’s misplaced.

And every time, I look away. Because I’m careful now. 

But things with Theo?

They don’t get better. They get worse.

He stops waiting for me after class. Stops showing up to rehearsals on time. When he does show, he’s sharper, either too quiet or too loud in all the wrong ways. The jokes turn mean. The silences stretch.

He hates being around Tommy. Hates the way I orbit that world now. Hates the way I pretend everything’s fine.

We start fighting over nothing, missed practices, forgotten rides, throwaway comments that cut deeper than they should. Ava tries to mediate, tries to hold us together, but even she’s starting to look tired.

And I know. I know this isn’t just about Tommy.

It’s about everything I won’t say. Everything I keep swallowing. Everything that keeps changing while Theo stands still, watching it happen.

I’m losing him.

Slowly. Quietly.

The same way I lost her.

–----

Sophia has rehearsals after school for the spring play, and it's been a recent habit to hang around with Tommy while we wait for rehearsals to end. The routine was the same, His soccer practice ended and we hung on the bleachers waiting for Sophia rehearsals to end.

Sitting on the bleachers, the field emptying out around us, then his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, groans, then answers.

“Yeah, Coach… yeah, I know… I’m on my way.”

He hangs up and looks at me apologetically. “Captain stuff. Last minute.”

I nod, already used to this. “Go.”

He hesitates, then glances toward the theater building. “Hey, Sophia’s rehearsal ends in like fifteen. Can you wait for her? Tell her I’m sorry I bailed.”

My stomach tightens. “Yeah. Sure.”

“And—” he adds quickly, “could you drive her home? I’ll make it up to her later, promise.”

I should say no.

I don’t.

“Okay,” I say.

Tommy claps my shoulder lightly, grateful, and jogs off toward the locker rooms.

So I wait. Walking to the parking lot, barely any cars in sight. 

I lean against my car in the parking lot, the air cooling as the sky shifts toward dusk. Laughter and music drift out from the theater doors in bursts. I check my phone. Pretend not to rehearse what I’ll say.

When the doors finally open, students spill out in clusters, voices loud and animated. Then I see her.

Sophia steps outside, hair pulled back, script tucked under her arm, glowing in that way people do when they’ve been doing something they love.

She spots me and pauses.

“Oh,” she says, smiling. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I reply, suddenly too aware of my hands. “Tommy got called in for captain stuff. He asked me to tell you he’s really sorry.”

She laughs softly, unsurprised. “Of course he did.”

I hesitated, then added, “He also asked if I could drive you home.”

She studies my face for a second—just long enough to make my chest tighten—then nods. “Yeah. That’s fine. Thanks.”

The drive is quiet at first.

The radio plays low, something acoustic and gentle. Streetlights flicker on one by one as we pull onto the road. I focus on the traffic, the lane lines, anything but the fact that she’s sitting in the passenger seat of my car.

“How was the rehearsal?” I ask eventually.

She lights up immediately, talking about blocking, about a song they’re reworking, about a moment that finally clicked. I listen. Really listen. It’s easy with her.

At a red light, she glances over. “Thanks for waiting, by the way.”

“Anytime,” I say.

And I mean it.

She watches the street ahead for a moment, then looks back at me, a little sheepish, like she’s debating something. “Hey, do you mind stopping at the fro-yo place on Sixth Street?”

I blink. “Fro-yo?”

She nods, smiling. “Yeah. It’s kind of a tradition of mine after rehearsals. Helps me decompress.”

I hesitate for half a second, long enough to remember I’m not supposed to want moments like this but then I shrug. “Sure.”

Her smile widens, genuine and warm. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I say, easing the car forward as the light turns green. “It’s on the way.”

“Thank you,” she says, already pulling her hair out of its tie, letting it fall loose around her shoulders. “Tommy usually forgets to stop by.”

The words land softly, but they stick.

We pulled into the froyo place a few minutes later. It’s bright inside, all neon signs and pastel walls, the kind of place that smells like sugar and cold air. There’s only a handful of people inside, mostly kids and a couple of teens killing time.

She hops out of the car first, holding the door open for me. “My treat,” she says, already grabbing a cup.

“I can pay—”

“Nope,” she cuts in lightly. “You drove.”

I let it go.

We stand side by side, filling our cups. She’s meticulous, layering flavors carefully, toppings arranged with surprising precision. I dump everything in like I always do.

She laughs when she notices. “You’re chaotic.”

“Efficient,” I correct.

We pay, then slide into a booth by the window. The spoon feels cold in my hand.

“This is nice,” she says after a moment, glancing around. “Quiet.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “It is.”

She eats a few bites, then looks at me again, thoughtful. “You know… I don’t really get to hang out with you much.”

My chest tightens. “Yeah.”

“I’d like to,” she adds quickly. “If that’s okay.”

I nod before my brain can catch up. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

Her smile is soft, almost relieved.

For a moment, it feels like the world has narrowed down to just this booth, this hum of freezers, this ordinary, dangerous happiness.

And I know, I’m standing way too close to something I shouldn’t want.

Sophia’s spoon slows, then stops halfway to her mouth. She glances over at me, brows knitting together like she’s circling a thought she’s not sure she wants to land.

“Hey,” she says carefully. “Do you know anything about… actually nothing.”

I laugh, light, a little too quick. “What? Don’t do that to me. You can ask. I don’t bite.”

She exhales, relieved, then nods to herself. “Well, you tutor Tommy, right?”

“Unfortunately,” I say dryly.

She smiles, then looks down at her froyo, tracing the surface with her spoon. “Does he… ask you stuff?”

I stiffen, just barely. “What kind of stuff?”

She hesitates again. “Like… how to write things. Or say romantic stuff.”

I laugh louder this time, because if I don’t, I might actually break. “What, you don’t believe Mr. Golden Boy can be romantic?”

“No, no, it’s not that,” she says quickly. Then she winces. “Okay. Can we just be girls for a second? Like forget about Tommy.”

My chest tightens. I nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

She leans back against the booth, eyes on the ceiling for a moment. “I just… I feel like he was really romantic at the beginning. With the letters.”

My spoon freezes midair.

“The letters,” she continues, oblivious, “they were beautiful. Like—really beautiful. Thoughtful. Specific. The kind of stuff that makes you feel seen, you know?”

I nod slowly, my throat dry. “Yeah. I get that.”

“But lately…” She trails off, frowning. “It’s not bad. He’s still sweet. It’s just—different. Like the way he talks in texts or in person doesn’t always match the way he writes.”

My heart starts pounding, slow and heavy.

“I feel crazy even saying this,” she adds with a small laugh. “Like I’m overthinking it.”

“No,” I say quietly, too fast. “You’re not.”

She looks at me then, really looks at me. “You don’t think so?”

I shake my head. “Sometimes people are better on paper,” I say carefully. “Doesn’t mean they’re lying. Just… means they think more when they write.”

She hums, considering. “That makes sense.”

A beat. Then, softer “Those letters felt like they came from someone who notices little things. Like someone who listens.”

My fingers curl tighter around my spoon. She looks back down at her cup. “I guess I just miss that version.”

Something inside me aches, deep and sharp and stupid.

“Have you told him that?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

Of course she doesn’t.

She glances up at me again, eyes searching. “He doesn’t ask you how to write stuff for me, right?”

The question hangs there. Heavy. Dangerous. I force myself to meet her gaze.

“No,” I say. It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.

She relaxes, smiling a little. “Good. That’d be weird, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing. “Weird.”

She laughs, light and unknowing, and takes another bite of froyo.

I watch her for a second too long, realizing with painful clarity. I didn’t just help him get the girl. I taught him how to sound like me. And now I’m sitting across from her, listening to her miss something she never knew wasn’t real.

I stir my melting froyo, the sweetness suddenly too much. I’m standing way too close to something I shouldn’t want. And I don’t know how to step back without everything falling apart.

“Sorry for the serious mood, Rocky,” she says, offering a small, apologetic smile.

“No, it’s okay,” I replied, forcing myself to breathe. Then I grin, something lighter breaking through. “You know what we need.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“A good drive,” I say. “Let me take you somewhere.”

Her smile widens, playful now. “Are you going to kidnap me?”

“Maybe,” I shrug. “Do you trust me?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

That alone almost undoes me.

We toss our cups and walk out into the cooling evening, the sky washed in soft pinks and blues. The car doors thud shut, familiar, grounding. I pull out onto the road, music low, windows cracked just enough to let the air in.

She hums along absentmindedly as we drive.

When I park, she looks around, confused at first, then something shifts in her expression.

The park is quiet. Swings creak gently in the breeze. The playground is smaller than I remember, but it’s all still here.

“This place…” she murmurs.

“I used to come here a lot,” I say, stepping out. “When I was a kid.”

She follows me, hands tucked into her jacket sleeves. “Yeah?”

I nod, walking toward the swings. “There’s this story I’ve never really told anyone.”

She sits on one of the swings, pushing off lightly. “I’m listening.”

I hesitate, then take the swing beside her. The chains rattle softly.

“When I was younger,” I begin, eyes fixed on the ground, “I was here with Theo and Ava. And there was this girl—older kids were messing with her. Took her toy. She looked so small, so angry, trying not to cry.”

Sophia’s grip tightens on the chains, but she says nothing.

“I don’t know what came over me,” I continued. “I just… stepped in. Told them to knock it off. Didn’t go great. I got shoved around instead.”

She lets out a quiet breath.

“But then,” I say, smiling faintly, “she helped me up. Started scolding me. Told me I was reckless. Stupid.”

Sophia laughs softly. “Sounds like her.”

I didn't catch it. “I just smiled at her,” I go on. “Big, dumb smile. And she got even more mad, because I was bleeding and still smiling.”

The swings slow.

“That was it,” I say. “That moment stuck with me. I never even knew her name. Never saw her again.”

I finally looked over.

Sophia isn’t swinging anymore.

She’s staring at me like the ground has shifted beneath her feet. Like a memory has risen up and wrapped itself around her chest.

“Y/N, that was m—” Sophia hesitates, then exhales a small laugh. “Really cute.”

“‘M-really cute,’” I repeat, grinning. “Are we sure ‘m-really’ is a word?”

“Shut up,” she says, cheeks flushing instantly.

“You’re m-really cute right now,” I joke and immediately regret it.

Her smile softens instead of vanishing. She tilts her head slightly, eyes searching mine. “I’m… cute?” she asks, like the word doesn’t usually belong to her.

Well. She heard it. No backing out now.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “You are. Really cute.”

She blinks, surprised.

“And it’s funny,” I add, trying to explain the feeling before I lose the nerve, “because calling you pretty is the obvious thing. Everyone does that.”

I swallow.

“But calling you cute is kind of stupid,” I admit, a nervous laugh slipping out, “because there are so many better things to say about you.”

She watches me closely now, like she’s afraid to interrupt.

“I could talk about how you notice things other people don’t. Or how you’re kind without making a show of it. Or how you make places feel different just by being there.” My voice drops. “Cute feels too small for all of that.”

Silence settles between us, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Sophia exhales, slowly. “You’re… really bad at compliments,” she says softly.

The moment lingers a second too long, fragile, like it’ll shatter if either of us moves too fast. So I’m the one who breaks it.

I smile lightly, chuckling at her "I know"

I push myself up from the swing, the chains creaking softly. “Let’s get you home.”

She nods, a little dazed, and follows me across the playground. The night air feels cooler now, heavier. Crickets chirp somewhere beyond the fence. The park looks smaller than it did in my memory.

We get into the car.

I start the engine. The radio stays off. It’s not awkward silence, just full. Packed with things neither of us knows how to say without changing everything.

Streetlights flicker past, painting her face in brief flashes of gold. She watches the road ahead, hands folded in her lap. Once, her knee brushes mine when I turn, and my heart stutters like it’s missed a step.

I don’t look at her. I don’t trust myself to.

When I pull up in front of her house, I put the car in park and let the engine idle. The porch light is on. Someone’s shadow moves behind the curtains.

“Thanks for tonight,” she says quietly.

“Anytime,” I reply, and this time it feels dangerous how true it is.

She hesitates, fingers on the door handle, then looks back at me. There’s something unsaid in her eyes. Something tender. Something impossible.

“Goodnight,” she says.

“Goodnight, Sophia.”

She steps out, closes the door gently, and walks up the driveway without looking back.

I wait until the door clicks shut, until the porch light flicks off, until her silhouette disappears completely.

Then I pull away.

My chest aches the entire drive home, a slow, spreading pressure that makes it hard to breathe. The road blurs, familiar turns passing without me really seeing them. The radio stays silent. I don’t deserve music right now.

I shouldn’t have done all this. Shouldn’t have taken her there. Shouldn’t have said any of it.

What kind of friend does that?

Tommy trusted me. Asked me to help him, not this. Not whatever line I let myself hover over tonight. I didn’t kiss her. I didn’t say I loved her. But it feels worse somehow.

I replay the moment over and over. Her smile. The way she said my name. The way she looked at me like I was… something.

Guilt coils tight in my stomach. Because a part of me, small, quiet, honest, doesn’t regret it.

That part keeps whispering that she listened in a way no one ever does. That she laughed with me, not at me. For a few minutes on those swings, it felt like the world narrowed down to just us, and I fit.

I grip the steering wheel harder.

This is how I always mess things up. By wanting. By hoping. By letting myself believe I could be more than the quiet girl in the corner, the helper, the safe option.

I pull into my driveway and sit there, engine running, forehead resting against the wheel.

I did the right thing, I tell myself. I have to believe that.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lunch feels… almost normal.

Tommy’s laughing so hard he nearly chokes on his fries, knocking his tray with his elbow as he does. I’m mid-story, something stupid about a substitute teacher mixing up George Orwell and Rad Bradbury again and for a moment, I forget to be careful.

“Okay, but that’s actually insane,” he says “I swear this school hires anyone.”

I snort. “Low standards. Very on brand.”

He grins, then nudges my arm. Gentler this time. “Hey. Thanks again for taking Sophia home yesterday. Coach totally blindsided me with that call.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “Really. She got home safe.”

“I owe you,” he says, sincere. “Seriously.”

“You don’t,” I reply, because I don’t know how to accept that kind of thing without feeling like I’m stealing something.

Across the cafeteria, I spot Ava llaughing.

Megan’s there, her legs tucked up on the bench beside Ava, fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on Ava’s wrist. Lara and Yoonchae are leaning in close, whispering about something on Yoonchae’s phone. Dani’s talking with her hands like she always does. Manon’s laughing loud, unapologetic.

And Sophia.

She’s sitting between Dani and Manon, hair pulled back, expression bright in a way that makes my chest tighten. She laughs at something Manon says, then, like she feels me her eyes flick up.

They meet mine.

It’s brief. Just a second. She smiles.

My stomach drops.

I look away first. Face red.

“I’m gonna—uh,” I say, standing abruptly. “I’ll be back.”

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just… gotta ask Ava something.”

I walk over before I can overthink it.

“Hey,” I say, sliding in beside Ava. “Can I steal you for a sec?”

Ava looks up, surprised, then nods. “Yeah. What’s up?”

I keep my voice low. “Have you talked to Theo? Like… recently?”

Her smile falters, just a little. “Why?” she asks carefully.

“He’s been ignoring me,” I admit. “No texts. No calls. He barely even looks at me at school.”

Ava exhales through her nose, glancing briefly at Megan, then back at me. “He’s… in a mood.”

“That’s new,” I say dryly.

She gives me a look. “He’s being stupid. And defensive. And taking things out on the wrong people.”

“Is it because of—” I stop myself. “Is it because of me?”

Ava doesn’t answer right away. Which is answer enough. She reaches out, squeezing my hand under the table. “I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him. Okay?”

I nod, forcing a small smile. “Okay.”

As I pull my hand back, I feel it again.

That pull. I glance up and Sophia is watching me.

Not laughing now. Not distracted.

Just watching.

For a moment, the cafeteria noise fades, and it’s just the two of us across the space, connected by something fragile and dangerous.

Then Manon says something loud, Sophia turns away, and the moment breaks.

I step back, heart pounding.

Normal lunch, I tell myself. Just another day. But nothing feels normal anymore.

When I go back, Tommy’s already leaning back in his chair like he’s been waiting to drop something on me.

“So,” he says, grinning, “Jonah’s throwing a Christmas party this weekend.”

I pause. “A party.”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You should come.”

I blink. “I don’t really—”

“Before you say no,” he cuts in, pointing a fry at me, “it’s not gonna be insane. Okay, it will be a little insane. But it’s Jonah. Big house, good music, way too much food. It’s basically a holiday requirement.”

I sit back down slowly. “I don’t do parties.”

Tommy scoffs. “You survive parties. There’s a difference. Plus, Ava’ll be there. Theo too.”

At Theo’s name, something in my chest tugs uncomfortably.

“And,” Tommy adds, casual but not really, “Sophia’s going.”

That does it.

I roll my eyes, pretending my heart didn’t just trip over itself. “You’re really bad at subtlety.”

He laughs. “I’m not trying to be subtle.”

I hesitate, fingers tracing the edge of my tray. A party means noise. Crowds. Too many people seeing too much.

But it also means… her. And maybe a chance to pretend everything’s fine for one night.

“I’ll think about it,” I say.

Tommy beams like he’s already won. “That’s a yes.”

“It’s literally not,” I mutter.

He stands, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as the bell rings. “Christmas party at Jonah’s. Friday night. I’ll text you the address.”

–--------------

The party came quicker than I expected.

Friday night blurs into existence before I’m ready for it, and suddenly I’m standing in front of Jonah’s house with Christmas lights stapled along the roofline and bass thudding through the walls like a second heartbeat.

I hesitate at the door.

Laughter spills out every time it opens. Someone yells my name, maybe my name, and a wave of warm air, perfume, sweat, and alcohol crashes into me.

I step inside.

Immediately, it’s too much. The house is packed shoulder to shoulder, bodies moving like a single organism. Red and green lights flash from somewhere near the living room. Music pounds through my chest, vibrating my ribs. Someone bumps into me, sloshing a drink dangerously close to my sleeve.

“Sorry!” they shout, already gone.

I stand there, frozen, fingers curling into the straps of my bag like it might anchor me to the floor.

Too loud. Too bright. Too many people.

I try to breathe, but the air feels thick, like it’s been used up already.

Someone laughs too close to my ear. Another body brushes past my back. I flinch, heart racing, suddenly hyper-aware of my own existence in a way I hate.

This was a mistake.

I scan the room, searching for familiar faces, Ava’s hair, Theo’s stupid hoodie, anyone but everyone blurs together in a mess of movement and noise.

The music shifts, heavier now. The crowd roars in approval.

My chest tightens.

I take a step back, then another, pressing myself against the wall near the entryway, trying to shrink. Trying to disappear.

Across the room.

Sophia.

She’s standing near the kitchen, laughing with Dani and Manon, a soft sweater clinging to her frame, hair loose around her shoulders. The lights catch her just right, like the universe is mocking me.

For a second, the noise dulls.

My pulse stutters.

Then someone shoves past me again, and the world crashes back in.

I swallow hard.

God. I really shouldn’t be here.

I try to hang on for a while. I really do.

I drift from room to room like a ghost, nodding when people talk to me, laughing a beat too late at jokes I barely hear. The music keeps getting louder or maybe I’m just getting smaller. Every bass drop feels like it rattles something loose in my chest.

Someone presses a drink into my hand. I hold it for a second, then set it down on the nearest surface and pretend it was never mine.

After ten minutes, maybe fifteen, I can’t do it anymore.

I slip out the back door.

The cold hits me instantly, sharp and clean, slicing through the fog in my head. I suck in a breath like I’ve been underwater too long. The backyard is strung with white Christmas lights, the snow trampled into slush, breath puffing out in little clouds.

I lean against the railing, shoulders sagging. Quiet. Finally,

I close my eyes.

“Hey.”

I open them.

Sophia stands a few steps away, jacket pulled tight around her, hair falling into her face as she tucks it behind her ear. The music is still there, muffled now, a distant thump through the walls.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

"Hey" I say giving her a weak smile.

"What are you doing here?" She asks, head tilting, eyes magnetic as always.

“The sadness will last forever,” I say suddenly. “That’s what Vincent van Gogh wrote. His last words.” I swallow. “I think I agree with him.”

Sophia tilts her head, studying me. Then a small smile tugs at her lips. “You didn’t answer my question there, Rocky,” she teases softly. “But I’ll let it slide. That sounded… interesting.” She pauses. “Do you like last words?”

“It’s a habit, I guess,” I murmur. “Like—‘Money can’t buy life.’” I don’t know why I say it. I just need to. Like the words are knocking and won’t leave me alone.

Her voice stays gentle. “Who said that?”

“Bob Marley.” I tilt my head back, looking up at the stars, scattered and distant, like they don’t belong to us at all.

She’s quiet for a beat. Then, “Do you have a favorite?”

I nod, slow. Careful. “To be continued.”

Her brows pull together. “Who said that?”

“My mom.”

The word hangs between us, fragile.

“I guess the poet comes from her,” Sophia says softly.

The words land gently, not like a compliment, but like understanding.

“Do you want to tell me about her?” Sophia asks softly. “She seems… deep. And caring.”

I stare ahead, at nothing in particular. “She was.” My throat tightens. “I remember her buying me all the books I love to this day. She was a woman with taste. She always told me you can smile through anything. And I really believed it.”

I swallow.

“Until she didn’t.”

“She sounds like someone who left you… a lot,” Sophia adds carefully. “Even if she couldn’t stay.”

I nod, staring at the frost-dusted grass. “Sometimes I feel like everything I write is just me trying to finish her sentence.”

"Thats beautiful" Sophia’s voice drops to a whisper. She bites her lips hesitating to say something then it opens “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thanks.” The word feels too small for what it means.

I don’t know what gets into me, maybe the quiet, maybe the way she hasn’t looked away once, but I feel myself lean toward her, slow and uncertain, giving her every chance to pull back.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she leans in too.

My head comes to rest against her shoulder, tentative at first, then settling. Her jacket is warm. Solid. Real. Her perfume is soft and familiar, something clean and sweet, like laundry and late nights and safety all mixed together.

I close my eyes. 

We stay like that for a while. Long enough for my breathing to even out. Long enough for the world to feel distant, manageable.

Then, A shout cuts through the quiet. It’s sharp. Angry. Too loud to be part of the music.

Sophia stiffens beside me. We both pull back at the same time, turning toward the house.

Through the window, bodies shove past each other. Someone knocks into a table. A voice rises, Theo’s, unmistakable. Another answers, louder, tighter.

Tommy.

“Oh shit,” I breathe.

We move at the same time, bolting back inside. The living room is chaos. People have backed away, forming a loose, shocked circle. Red cups litter the floor. Theo and Tommy are squared off, faces flushed, words slurring into something dangerous.

“What’s your problem?” Tommy shouts.

“You,” Theo snaps back. “It’s always you. And you know why.”

“Guys—stop,” Sophia says, pushing through the crowd.

I don’t think. I just act. I step between them, hands up. “Hey. this is stupid. Both of you, step the fuck back”

Tommy turns too fast. There’s a flash of movement. A sharp crack. Pain explodes across my face.

I stumble back, stars bursting behind my eyes as I hit the couch hard. The room goes silent in an instant.

“Oh my god,” someone whispers.

Tommy freezes, horror flooding his expression. “I— I didn’t mean—”

Sophia is at his side immediately, grabbing his arm. “Tommy. Come with me. Now.”

She shoots me one look, apology, worry, something unspoken before pulling him away toward the hallway.

Theo just stands there, breathing hard, knuckles clenched, eyes locked on the spot where Tommy stood.

I push myself up, jaw throbbing. “Come on,” I mutter, grabbing Theo’s sleeve. “Outside.”

He doesn’t resist. I drag him through the back door and into the cold again, the door slamming shut behind us.

The party noise dulls.

I drag him across the yard, my grip tight on his sleeve, until we’re far enough from the door that the music fades into a low, distant hum.

“Hey,” I snap, spinning on him. “What the hell was that?”

Theo yanks his arm free, pacing a few steps before turning back on me. His chest rises and falls hard, eyes glassy, jaw locked like he’s holding something ugly between his teeth.

“What’s wrong?” I press softer now. “Talk to me.”

He lets out a short, brittle laugh. No humor in it. “You would never get it, cause everything is perfect in Y/N's world, nothing bothers her, right?”

My cheek throbs, but I ignore it. “Then make me get it. Let me understand, Theo. I can live with you ignoring me—but I draw the line at you fighting.”

“Just shut up, Y/N,” he spits, cold and sharp “You don’t get it. So just leave it”

My voice rises despite myself. “Is this because of me? Because I set them up? Is that it, cause I don't need you fighting my battles Theo, its bullsh—?”

“I was fucking him, okay” he shouts, cutting me off. The sound echoes in the empty yard. He drags a hand through his hair, breath hitching, the fight draining out of him all at once.

Then, quieter. Broken. “I’m in love with him.”

🏷️