#gritty romance

From the corner of the room, your record player crackled with soft resistance, The Smiths murmuring through a haze of static and dust. It was a good kind of background noise. Not loud, not demanding. Just there. Like summer itself—boring in the way that gave your brain permission to slow down. A sweet, stilled kind of nothingness.

Then came the knock.

A light tap-tap against the glass above the beanbags. Your eyes flicked up, already half-annoyed. Already knowing.

And sure enough—

Tommy fucking Miller.

You hissed, “God damnit,” under your breath as you pushed yourself up and stumbled toward the window. He was grinning like he knew something you didn’t, one hand already gripping the sill. His other leg swung up onto the trellis like it had every damn night this month. The wood groaned in protest, and so did you.

You popped the latch and shoved the window open just in time for him to half-slide, half-hurl himself into your room like he belonged there.

“Real quiet, Miller,” you gritted, running to double-check that your bedroom door was locked. “Because my parents are gonna murder you if they hear one creak.”

He landed on his feet with the grace of a kid who’s done this too many times, brushing imaginary dirt off his jeans like this was some kind of polite visit. “Wouldn’t be the first time I died for you,” he muttered, low and smug.

You turned, arms crossed, trying not to smile. Trying not to let the warmth in your chest outshine the heat pressing through the windowpanes. It's true, it wouldn't be the first nor the last time he finds trouble in your wake.

Because damn him—he was the only thing this summer had going for it.

Or, rather… this town.

It was only when your eyes set on his face that the rest of the room went quiet. A new scratch. A long, thin line snaking down his lip.

It looked fresh. Still red, still raw. You barely registered your body moving, your hand reaching, thumb brushing under his jaw.

“Holy shit,” you breathed, faster than you meant to. “What the fuck did you do?”

Tommy flinched—but not from you. Just instinct, like the kind that doesn’t leave. Like he was still waiting for someone else's hand to swing instead of hold. Still, he let you tilt his chin, let you see it in full.

“Nothin’,” he muttered, smirking like it’d make you look less close. “Got into it with the porch railing.”

You scoffed, not buying it for a second. “Was the porch railing wearing a ring? Because that looks a hell of a lot like a right hook.”

He winced when you grazed the edge of it, and that told you everything, “Christ, Tommy,” you whispered, softer now. Less fury, more ache. “You can't keep coming here like this.”

His eyes flicked away, to your bedroom floor, to your half-finished book, to the record player wheezing out some broken refrain. He looked anywhere but at you. Until he did. “Where else’m I supposed to go, huh?” he asked, voice low and not angry—but worn. Frayed. “Ain’t like my place is offerin’ bedtime stories.”

Your hand dropped from his chin. You hated how often this happened. Hated how your room had become his escape hatch. And you hated most of all that you were the only one who knew how bad it really was. He threw himself down onto your floor like it was a ritual—because it was. Pushed your beanbag aside, tugged your extra pillow under his head like he always did. Smelled like sweat, and heat, and the faintest trace of tobacco smoke—none of it from him.

“You know this is the third time this week?” you asked, turning and kneeling beside him.

“Guess that makes it a sleepover,” he grinned, lip split open fresh with it.

"I think sleepovers are supposed to be voluntary for both parties."

You rolled your eyes, tugging the pillow back out from under him just to make him fight for it. He did, of course, all elbows and puppy-dog dramatics, wrestling it back into place until you both dissolved into breathless laughs. But there was tension there. A line you never crossed, both of you knowing exactly where it was.

You sat beside him, knees pulled up to your chest. He reached out, tugged at your sock like a pest. It was always an annoying touch, in one way or another. “You ever think about just leavin’?” he asked suddenly, eyes on the ceiling.

You blinked. “Where?”

“Anywhere. Road trip. California. Shit, I’d even take Amarillo.”

You snorted. “That’s your dream? Amarillo?”

He turned toward you then, and there was that look again. The one he only gave you at night, when it was quiet. When there wasn’t anyone left to pretend for.

“My dream’s not far from yours."

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because you weren’t allowed to believe him. Not out loud.

So instead, you reached for the little first aid tin under your bed, unsnapped it, and tapped your knee.

“C’mon, Miller. Let me patch up your ugly ass again.”

“If I knew bruises got me this kinda attention, I’d’ve started fallin’ on purpose," he drawled, smirking with just a bit too many teeth. You tossed a cotton ball at his face for that one, earning a small huff of a laugh. It was a slow process as you moved over towards your bed.

“Where’s Joel?” you murmur, voice thinner than usual as you turn away.

Your hand disappears beneath the bedframe, fingers brushing past old notebooks and a half-dead flashlight before landing on the cold metal tin. Inside, tucked in like something sacred, was the bottle of isopropyl alcohol. You’d kept it stashed there. Just for him. Just for this.

He didn’t answer right away, and that alone told you more than words could’ve. The bottle clinked softly as you pulled it free, cradled it like something living. You didn’t look at Tommy when you unscrewed the cap, but you felt him watching. He shifted on the floor behind you, the creak of your carpet like thunder in the heavy, humid silence.

“Didn’t come back tonight,” he finally said, quietly.

Your stomach turned in on itself like a wrung rag, but you didn’t ask for more. You didn’t push. Because when it came to Joel Miller, missing didn’t always mean gone. Not yet, at least. Instead, you poured a capful of the alcohol and soaked a cotton pad, your voice flat when you spoke again, “Sit up.”

Tommy obeyed without a word. That was the thing about him—he never fought you on this. Not when you got like this. Not when your voice went tight and your hands moved like muscle memory. You reached out and cupped his jaw, thumb just beneath that fresh cut on his lip. It was already scabbing. Still angry and red. “This one looks worse than the others,” you whispered, not even meaning to say it.

He tilted his head slightly, letting you work. “Maybe I’m just gettin’ uglier,” he offered, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Maybe,” you muttered, and you both let out a breath, a semblance of a laugh.

The pad touched skin, and he hissed, muscles tensing, but he didn’t flinch away. You were careful, always careful, even when your hands were shaking. You didn’t let yourself meet his eyes. “You shouldn’t keep this stuff for me,” he said after a beat. “Ain’t right.”

“You shouldn’t need it so often,” you shot back, sharper than intended, "Ain't right."

Silence again.

The kind that meant he agreed with you, but couldn’t say so. Because that would mean admitting everything else. You finished cleaning him up, tossing the used gauze into a little bag you kept just for nights like this. Your fingers lingered on his cheek before falling back to your side.

“Y’know,” he said, eyes cast down as he pulled at a thread on the seam of your rug, “… you always ask about him first.”

You hummed, dabbing the cut with practiced care, making sure to wipe away every speck of dried blood and the thin layer of dirt clinging to his skin like residue from whatever hell he’d crawled out of. “Stop moving,” you whispered, more to fill the silence than anything else.

Tommy didn’t. Just sat there with his legs crossed and his shoulders hunched, like he was waiting for some invisible blow. It made your stomach twist.

"Are you jealous of your brother?" you asked, so softly it almost got lost under the spin of the fan overhead. You kept your eyes on the wound, working at the grime with a precision that was more intimate than clinical. It wasn’t meant to be mean. And you knew what it sounded like—some bratty, loaded question you already knew the answer to. But it wasn’t about that. Not really. Joel was older. He was hot, yeah, in that rugged way that made even your friends whisper when he passed by in the truck with his arm out the window.

But he wasn’t for you. He was a grown-up, already halfway out of town with one foot in the real world. Practically eight years older.

Joel was the wall Tommy could hide behind.

That’s why you asked.

Because if Joel leaves? Tommy might have more than injuries that only you can tend to.

Tommy’s lips parted like he wanted to say something quick and dumb, his usual escape, but the words didn’t come. You watched his jaw flex under your fingers.

He finally exhaled, shaky. “Jealous ain’t the right word.”

You slowed, waiting.

“It’s just… when he’s around, things don’t go to shit so fast. House is quieter. Pa doesn’t act like such a goddamn drunk.”

You nodded, eyes dropping back to your work. The skin was clean now, the cut shallow but angry. You pressed the last cotton round against it, gently.

“I ask ‘cause I care about you,” you mumbled, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw like it was nothing.

Like it hadn’t already meant something for years now.

You're best friends.

That's all.

He looked at you. Not just glanced—looked. His brows pulled together, like he didn’t know how to accept that. Like it hurt a little, maybe, to hear someone say it out loud.

“I know,” he said, voice like gravel. “That’s why I come here.”

And that—that—landed heavy in the space between you.

Not flirtation. Not tension.

Just the truth. Just a boy with too much weight on his shoulders, and someone who noticed every time he started to sink.

"You listen to the Depeche Mode album?"

It came out of his mouth too quick—too sudden for the mood, too bright for the dim room, but maybe that was the point. Anything to cut through the static silence between you. Anything to scrape the weight off his chest, or maybe distract you from the way his hands were still trembling in his lap. You blinked, caught off guard, eyes finally lifting from the little tin of first aid supplies now resting between you. “…Violator?” you asked after a beat, voice soft. “Yeah. Like, five times already.”

He gave a little snort through his nose, barely a breath. “You’d like it. Dramatic as hell.”

“Says the guy crawling through my window like a teen movie reject.” That made him smile for real this time—small and lopsided, but it reached his eyes just enough to chase off the worst of whatever had been nesting behind them.

“You’re not wrong,” he murmured. “But c’mon… Sweetest Perfection? That’s got your name written all over it.”

You rolled your eyes, but the burn in your cheeks gave you away.

“You always do this,” you muttered, finger grazing against the tube of antiseptic, careful as you lifted to apply it to each mark on his face.

“Do what?”

“Try to make me feel better when you’re the one bleeding on my floor.”

He shrugged, head tilting back against the edge of your bedframe, eyes half-lidded now. Like the effort of it all—sneaking out, climbing in, surviving—was finally catching up to him.

“You patch me up,” he said, quieter now. “Only fair I return the favor.”

You didn’t respond right away. Hand lowering to settle the tube back into the tin. Just leaned back beside him, shoulders touching faintly. Let the sound of the record player’s low hum fill the silence again. Somewhere between a love song and a funeral march.

The kind of song that fits a summer like this—too hot, too heavy, too full of things unsaid.

Four Days Later.

The hum of the crickets outside kept you restless, limbs tangled in a mess of damp sheets and sweat-slicked skin. It was another one of those nights—air thick enough to chew through, heat hanging like a damp rag on your back. Everything was uncomfortable. Even with the ceiling fan cranked to max, its groaning spin only pushed the warmth around, never easing it. Nothing was fun or relaxing. 

You hadn’t slept. Not really. Just rolled from one side to the other, forehead pressed to the pillow, trying to ignore the way the silence made your chest ache more than the heat did.

Then—  

Knock.  

A beat.  

Knock, knock, knock.

You knew that rhythm. You always knew.

You didn’t rush, but your legs remembered the way. You made your way across the room, bare feet thudding softly against the wood, fingers gripping the handle. A slow twist, a full spin, and the window swung out like muscle memory. Like ritual.

Tommy was already halfway up the trellis, the worn slats creaking under his weight. His boots landed silently on your floor a second later, shoulders rising with the effort of the climb and the heat. “Your parents aren’t home?” he asked, like he hadn’t timed it perfectly. Like he hadn’t been doing this long enough to know their schedule better than your own.

“They won’t be,” you murmured, stepping aside to let him in properly. “Out of town for the weekend. Some retreat thing.”

He nodded, already dropping his bag by the beanbags like it belonged there. Like he belonged there. His hair was longer than usual, sweat curling it at the ends. Probably hasn't gotten it cut in a while. Dirt smudged along the hem of his shirt, the collar pulled loose. Another fresh cut on his knuckle.

You didn’t ask. Not yet, at least. 

He threw himself down beside your bed, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath all day. You stayed standing, shifting, watching him for a moment. He looked more tired than usual. More worn-in. And not just from the heat.

“…Long night?” you finally asked, your voice soft, nearly swallowed by the buzz of the fan and the hum of the cicadas outside.

Tommy glanced up at you. Gave you a look that was both too old for seventeen and still somehow so young.

“Yeah,” he said simply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Just didn’t wanna be there.” You didn’t need the details. You’d heard enough from him over the years to read between the lines. You nodded once and turned away, heading toward the closet where you kept the old box fan.

“I’ll get the extra blankets,” you mumbled, even though you both knew he’d end up stealing yours anyway.

“Thanks, dummy,” he said, voice quieter now.  Just warm enough to make your heart twitch. Just familiar enough to remind you why you always opened the window.

Before long, the night settled around you both like a soft weight—too heavy to move, too comforting to shake off.

You ended up curled together on the couch, limbs thrown over limbs without much thought. One of your throw blankets draped half over his legs, your socked feet tucked beneath his thigh. The TV buzzed in the corner, playing some scratchy old VHS of an animated movie you'd seen a thousand times. Not anything special. Not really. Just a way to fill the silence.

The kind of film you didn’t have to watch. Just hear. Familiar voices, familiar melodies, flickering light dancing across your living room walls like it had a mind of its own.

Tommy let out a long, quiet breath. His arm was slung behind the cushions, but his pinky brushed against your shoulder every now and again—like he forgot it was there. Or maybe like he didn’t. You didn't question it. Didn’t have to. His presence was loud in all the ways that mattered.

You glanced over once, catching him mid-blink, eyes heavy-lidded from exhaustion or maybe peace. That quiet sort of peace he only ever seemed to find here. With you.

“Y’wanna change it?” he asked suddenly, voice scratchy with fatigue.

You shook your head. “No. I like this one.”

He hummed in agreement, letting his eyes fall closed again, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Figured. You always did.” Outside, the cicadas buzzed. Inside, the old animation played on—flickering, faded, and just enough. Just like the two of you. Not quite kids. Not quite something more. But close enough to keep holding on.

"You still thinkin' about the military?"

The words slipped out softer than you meant, barely more than a breath—like your mouth had to wrestle with them first. Like, just saying it out loud made it more real. Tommy didn’t answer right away. He blinked slowly, kept his eyes on the screen, though you could tell he wasn’t really watching anymore. The flicker of cartoon colors lit up the sharp cut of his jaw, the bruise yellowing near his temple, the scab on his lip.

Finally, his thumb tapped once, twice, against the couch cushion.  

“…Yeah,” he murmured. “Still thinkin’ about it.”

It landed in your chest like a stone. You turned your gaze forward, too, the movie nothing but background now, noise to drown in. You didn’t want to say it out loud, but the thought of him leaving—of him choosing to go—was something cold and mean curling in your stomach.

“Why?” you whispered, knowing the answer, but still asking. Always asking.

He shrugged, but it was hollow. Forced.  

“Get outta here, I guess. Make somethin’ outta it. Outta me.”

You swallowed hard, teeth pressing down on the inside of your cheek. You hated the way he said that. Like this place made him nothing. Like his worth had to be earned in blood and sand somewhere far away.

“…You already are something,” you mumbled, voice nearly lost to the old VHS hiss. “… to me, anyway.”

That made him glance over. Just a flick of his eyes. Then a longer pause. Tommy didn’t say anything, not at first. Just leaned back a little deeper into the couch, fingers curling slightly where they brushed your shoulder. “I know,” he said after a while, quietly. Almost guilty. “That’s what makes it hard.”

And there it was. That weight again. The one that never really left the room. You just shifted closer, rested your head against his shoulder, and let the silence hold what neither of you could say yet. Before long, the soft hum of the old television melted into the background, swallowed by sleep. You’d drifted without meaning to—head tucked into the curve of his neck, the steady rise and fall of his chest guiding your breath.

He smelled like cheap cigar smoke and dirt—like summer sweat and scraped knuckles. It clung to him like a second skin, like something sacred. But to you, it didn’t reek. It didn’t repulse. It was him. And that meant it was safe. You might’ve stayed like that all night, if not for the subtle shift of his body beneath you. A twitch in his arm. A breath too sharp. He moved like he didn’t want to wake you, but your body knew the absence before your mind caught up.

Your words spilled out before you could even register them: “Where’re you going?” It was slurred, drowsy, and fragile around the edges. Like your heart had noticed the emptiness first. Tommy froze halfway out of his seat. His silhouette was nothing but a shadow in the blue light of the paused screen. He looked back at you over his shoulder, one hand raking through his messy hair.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said lowly, his voice all gravel and guilt. “Just… thought I’d head back before the sun comes up.”

You sat up, still foggy from sleep, a crease forming between your brows. “Why?”

He hesitated. Eyes flicked down to the floor, then up to yours.  

“Don’t wanna be here when they get back. Don’t wanna get you in trouble.”

There was something else under that, though. You knew him too well not to hear it. The fear. The shame. The pull of a house that never really felt like home.

You shifted closer, reached out, and caught his wrist before he could rise all the way. “Tommy.”

He stilled. The name hung between you like a warning, like a plea.

“You don’t have to go,” you said, softer now. “Not yet.”

He didn’t answer, but the way his shoulders sagged told you enough.

Six Days Later

The magazine pages whispered as you flipped them lazily, the glossy smell of print clinging to your fingertips. Your lamp was the only light on, casting soft shadows across your bedroom walls, the kind that danced just a little if you stared long enough.

A knock—soft, measured—tapped at your window.

You didn’t even flinch.

You just reached over and cracked the window open. The warm night air curled in first, then came Tommy, sneakers quiet against the hardwood, curls messy like he’d just come from another sprint down the alleyway. Or a shower. You could never tell. 

“Thought you said you’d knock like a normal person next time,” you muttered, not looking up from your spread of perfume ads and terrible quizzes.

“I did knock,” he said, dusting grass from his jeans. “You’re just picky.”

You snorted.

He laid down on the floor beside your bed, stretching his legs out in that exaggerated way he always did. Like the world never made space for him, so he had to take it himself.

“What’s the quiz tonight?” he asked, peeking over your blanket edge. “What kind of soup are you based on your emotional trauma?”

“Close,” you said, holding up the page, “It’s ‘What’s Your Signature Shade of Lipstick?’ Apparently, I’m cherry heartbreak.”

“That sounds fake,” he exhaled, “You’re more like… chapstick with a vengeance.”

“So, I'm boring?” you laughed, tossing a throw pillow at his head. He caught it and hugged it like it was the prize at a carnival.

Silence settled for a second, easy and loose.

Then:

“Would you rather,” he started, eyes fixed on your ceiling fan, “Be stuck in a zombie apocalypse… or have to sit through your dad giving a sex talk?”

You groaned. “Tommy.”

“No, c’mon. Answer.”

You rolled your eyes, thoughtful. “Honestly? Zombies. At least with them, I can run.” He laughed low in his throat, satisfied, "I wouldn't peg you for the type to survive."

“Okay, okay—your turn,” you said, sitting up straighter, twisting the magazine shut. “Would you rather go a week without your Walkman, or without Oreos?”

“That’s evil,” he said immediately. “That’s a war crime. You’re violating, like, three conventions.”

“You don't know what a convention is—Pick, Miller.”

“…Oreos,” he sighed dramatically. “I need the tunes more. Music’s survival.”

You gave a mock solemn nod, like he’d just said something incredibly wise.

“Okay, okay,” he said, pointing at you. “Your turn again. Would you rather kiss Joel—”

“Absolutely not.”

“—or,” he went on, ignoring you, “be grounded for a year with no music, no books, no nothing.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “I'd rather chew glass.”

Tommy grinned like a fox. “So you would kiss Joel.”

You launched another pillow at his chest. He caught that one, too, and laughed like it was the best noise in the world. It was. It was the best noise in the world.  Eventually, he shifted onto his side, arm propping up his head, eyes settling on yours with that half-serious calm he got when the world slowed down.

The magazine had been forgotten somewhere between the second round of “would you rather” and the moment Tommy started toying with a few loose strands of your hair without thinking. The radio was on now, low volume, casting soft blues—some old song you weren't really vibing to, but didn't dislike either.  

You turned your head a little, just enough to catch his eyes where he lay beside you on the rug.

“How’s your dad been?”

The question was gentle, but it landed with a weight neither of you could ignore.

Tommy blinked, his hand pausing mid-braid.

“Same as always,” he muttered, eyes shifting toward your ceiling again. “Worse, maybe. But I don’t know. Think I’m getting better at dodging.”

"Tommy—" You started, and he raised a hand in protest, as if already asking you to calm down. Though it wasn’t a good answer. There wasn’t a good answer to begin with.

“I heard him the other night,” you said softly. “Through the phone when you called. Yelling. Surprised he even let you on the landline.”

Tommy didn’t reply. Just breathed out slowly through his nose and picked at a fray in your carpet. You gave him a minute.

“I dunno,” he mumbled finally, “some days I think I’m used to it. Like it’s just… background noise now.”

You rolled to your side to face him more directly. “That’s not something you’re supposed to get used to, Tommy.”

His jaw tightened. Not angry. Just locked.

“Yeah, well,” he said, voice low, “… you play the hand you're dealt, right?”

You wanted to say something—anything—to fix it. But you’d said things before. He always took them like a thank-you note and folded them into some internal drawer, deep and unreachable.

So instead, you just reached for his hand. He let you take it. Let your thumb trace the ridge of his knuckle, where a fading bruise bloomed soft purple even against tan skin. 

“I keep thinkin’ about August,” he said after a long stretch of silence, “’Bout leavin’. What it’ll be like not having a reason to go back home.”

Your heart thudded a little harder. But you didn’t let go of his hand.

Am I not a reason?—

“You’ll have to write me letters,” you said quietly. “Or I’ll send someone to kick your ass.”

He looked at you finally, a tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You’d do it yourself,” he said. “You got better aim than half the football team.”

You shrugged. “Someone had to teach you not to flinch, huh?” And for a while, you both just laid there, hands laced, the weight of the world still heavy—but a little more bearable.

The quiet had started to settle again.

The kind where nothing needed to be said. The kind where it was enough just to share a space, two teenagers on a bedroom floor, toes brushing the edge of an old rug. The hum of the radio filled the silence. Outside, a siren wailed distant and low, swallowed quickly by the thick Texas night.

Then—

“Oh my god—”

You bolted upright so fast it startled Tommy, your voice cracking into a higher pitch than usual.

“What?—"

“It’s on the wall—it’s on the wall, oh my god, Tommy—”

He followed your frantic stare, his eyes landing on a slow-moving brown spider just above your bookshelf. Average size. Harmless, really. But to you?

Apocalypse-tier.

You scrambled backward, nearly climbing onto the nightstand.

“Kill it—Please, please, kill it—Move it out.. Let it leave.”

Tommy blinked, then—unexpectedly—chuckled. Rough, and gravelly from a puberty-bent chuckle. 

“Ain’t gonna kill it,” he said calmly, already rising to his feet. “It’s just a wolf spider. They eat worse things.” You stared at him in betrayal.

“Tommy, it has legs, it’s moving, it’s in my room.”

“Technically, you’re in its house,” he mumbled under his breath, stepping toward the wall like this was all perfectly routine. You pressed yourself into the far corner like the thing had a vendetta against you personally. It did. Okay? It totally fucking looked at you. 

Tommy grabbed a tissue box and gently coaxed the spider onto one of the corners, slow and patient like he’d done it a hundred times. “They’re misunderstood, you know,” he said, glancing back at you. “People always think they’re tryin’ to bite, but most of ‘em just want out. Just scared.”

“I want out,” you hissed, eyes wide. 

With an easy flick of his wrist, he opened your window and let the spider drop onto the trellis below. It disappeared into the shadows.

Tommy shut the pane and locked it. “There. Crisis averted.”

You didn’t relax right away. Not until he sat beside you again, and you could feel that it was gone.

He bumped your shoulder with his own, a little smug. “You good now, tough guy?”

You exhaled hard, the tension finally leaking out of your limbs. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…Maybe just a little.”

He smiled—but not the cocky one. The real one. The soft one you didn’t see as often. The one that always caught you off guard.

“You didn’t have to be nice about it,” you muttered.

“I wanted to be.” He didn’t say more, but you felt it. That tiny shift in the air. The part of him he didn’t show to everyone else. Not even Joel. The part that didn’t flinch when something ugly looked back at him.

And maybe, for the first time in a while, you weren’t just seeing Tommy for Tommy. But, rather, who he is when he isn't forced to be a Miller. 

THREE WEEKS LATER

The engine roared to life beneath your hands, louder and meaner than you’d expected. It rattled through your ribs, made your fingertips buzz. The kind of sound that screamed run, that made your stomach flip and your blood throb hot. It would be too soon if you ever felt this again in your lifetime. 

This was—without a doubt—the craziest thing you’d ever done. And you were doing it for him. 

The drive was short, just a few streets down, but every red light felt like a lifetime. Your knuckles clutched the wheel like it might buck out from under you, but when you finally parked in the dark mouth of the cul-de-sac, you felt it: that jittery sort of thrill only reckless kids with nothing to lose ever really feel. You slid the stolen keys into your jacket pocket. Still warm. The Miller house sat quiet, porch light off but the living room lamp bleeding faint yellow through the curtains. The patrol car in the driveway was what made your heart stutter.

His dad was home.

Perfect.

You ducked low, sneakers thudding softly as you crossed the backyard and leapt the fence. Not your cleanest vault, but better than last time—your palms stung, a branch scratched your leg, but you didn’t stop. The bungalow was squat and familiar, the roof a shallow climb. Nothing like your second-story escape hatch. You clawed your way onto the shingles, heart hammering, body moving on muscle memory.

You crouched beside the window—his window.

Knock. A pause.  

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The signal.

Curtains rustled. The old window creaked open. And then there he was—Tommy. Mess of sleep-mussed hair, eyes wide like he was still trying to process what he was seeing.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, voice low but sharp, too surprised to be angry.

“Happy birthday,” you breathed, and held up the keychain.

His mouth fell open. “Is that—? You stole a car?”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Borrowed.” It's not like your Dad will miss it for the whole four hours. 

Tommy just stared at you. Then he did that half-laugh thing he always did when his emotions tripped over each other—somewhere between awe and disbelief. He blinked once. Twice. “You stole a car,” he said, flatly, not quite believing the words out loud. “With my dad home?”

You didn’t say anything. Just held up the plastic keychain you’d clipped on, shaped like a stupid little dinosaur—the kind of joke he always made at the gas station. Something small. Something dumb. Something his.

"Police officer Father," He looked at it, then back at you. And for a second, you weren’t sure if he was going to start yelling, or laughing. Instead, he sighed. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

You tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Figured you could use a break.”

He was quiet. Really quiet. Then: “Yeah,” he said, softer this time. “I could.”

He stepped back from the window, letting you crawl through. You both moved carefully, aware of every creak in the floorboards, every shadow. Only then did you realize—he was shirtless. His frame stood faintly outlined in the low light of his room, back turned to you as he rummaged through a drawer, sleep still clinging to his shoulders like something he hadn’t quite shrugged off yet. His curls were a mess, flattened on one side, the red imprint of his pillow still stamped along his cheek. You must’ve woken him. Hard sleep, too—he always crashed deep when things at home got loud.

You stood awkwardly near the window, hands shoved in the pockets of your hoodie, trying not to stare at the way his back moved, or the slow stretch of muscle when he yawned.

It felt a bit more intimate than your room. 

Talk. Say something. Anything.

“So,” you started, voice a little too dry, too loud in the hush of the room, “… Eighteen.”

He paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder, one brow raised, “Big number,” you added, like that helped. Like it meant anything.

Tommy let out a low breath—something halfway between a laugh and a sigh—and finally tugged a worn T-shirt over his head. “Yeah, well. Don’t feel any different.”

You nodded slowly, still avoiding his eyes. “Think you’re supposed to get a new license, vote, buy scratch-offs… Porn section of blockbuster… enlist.” That last word stuck in your throat for a second longer than the rest.

He caught it.

The air shifted. The easy haze of the moment tightened—thin string pulled taut between you. He didn’t say anything right away, just grabbed a hoodie off the back of his desk chair and pulled it on over his head. Then: “You worried I’m still thinkin’ about that?”

You shrugged, gaze flicking toward the floorboards. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I ain’t going anywhere,” he said, firm but not harsh. “Not yet, anyway.”

You glanced at him then, just for a second—and for once, he didn’t look like the kid sneaking through your window to escape a fight. 

He looked older. Still the same, still Tommy, but with something under the surface. A little sharper. A little more worn.

You didn't notice as it slowly morphed. But, something about this summer was different. Eighteen didn’t make him different. Life already had. Maybe a little too fast for your liking. 

“C’mon,” he murmured after a second, flicking the light off behind him. “Let’s get you outta here before my dad decides to take a piss and sees your shoe prints on the damn roof.”

You weren't that obvious… were you?

A quick nod, falling into step behind him, your heart thudding too loudly in your chest for how calm he looked. Maybe it was muscle memory by now—he’d snuck in and out of his house so many times it was practically routine. But for you? This was chaos. Controlled chaos, but chaos all the same. He paused by the window, then motioned for you to hold up a second as he peeked outside. The porch light was still off. The dog wasn’t barking. The patrol car was empty in the drive. “All right,” he whispered. “Same way you came in, just backwards. Watch your foot on the ledge—it dips on the left.”

“Right.” You crouched near the window, already regretting your choice of jeans as they pulled too tight at the knees. “Totally got this.”

Tommy snorted. “You’re gonna break your neck one day tryin’ to impress me.”

“I’m not—” you started to hiss, but he was already half out the window, crouched low on the shingles, one hand reaching back for yours.

You took it without thinking.

His grip was steady, grounding. Even in the dark, with his house behind you both like something waiting to bite, he made you feel like you weren’t completely out of your depth.

“Okay,” he muttered, once you were both crouched on the roof. “Trellis is on your left. Step lightly, don’t lean too far out. It’ll hold if you don’t freak out.”

You did, in fact, freak out.

You made it halfway down before your foot slipped, your body knocking against the wooden frame with a loud thud that echoed down the street. You clamped your hand over your mouth, wide-eyed.

“Jesus,” Tommy hissed from above, then dropped after you with practiced ease, boots silent on the grass. It baffles you how he could make a half-story jump look easy. He caught your elbow before you could stumble again.

“You good?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah,” you wheezed. “Mostly just… bruised my pride.”

He smirked, just barely. “That thing’s made of glass.” You elbowed him softly, trying not to grin too wide as the two of you crept down the street, the stolen car still parked a block down. You handed him the keys without a word, already knowing you weren’t the one who should be behind the wheel.

He'd been driving since he was thirteen. Probably. A sad, unfortunate task of driving your father home from the bar. 

Tommy opened the door, eyes flicking across the empty road before jerking his chin toward the passenger side.

“You’re insane,” he muttered once you were both in, engine purring like a wild animal barely tamed. “Stealin’ a car. Hoppin’ fences. Breakin’ into my house.”

“I brought cake,” you offered, motioning towards the back, a small cake in a semi-beat up box resting on the floor of the passenger side.

That smile again—quiet, tired, crooked. It looked good on him. “You’re still insane.”

You leaned your head back against the seat. “Yeah. But I’m your kind of insane.”

Tommy didn’t answer right away. Just put the car in gear, eyes fixed on the road ahead like there was nothing else in the world he needed to look at. But his voice came soft as the engine’s hum. “Yeah,” he said. “You are.”

The car hummed along the cracked pavement, tires crunching against loose gravel on the side streets. The night air slipped in through the cracked windows, carrying the faint buzz of cicadas and the distant glow of streetlights.

Tommy’s hand tapped rhythmically on the steering wheel as “Just Like Heaven” spun through the speakers, Morrissey’s voice low and urgent. You sang along quietly, half-smiling, head leaning against the window as the world blurred by in soft streaks of light.

“This one’s yours, right?” he asked, glancing your way, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he nodded toward the radio.

You shrugged. “One of ‘em.” He flicked the dial, then settled on something louder — “Love Shack” by The B-52’s. The beat was infectious, and the car filled with your voices belting out the chorus, off-key but all in. Somewhere between laughing and singing, Tommy pulled off the main roads and slipped the car into a narrow dirt path that led to the local forest preserve. The headlights cut through tall grass and low-hanging branches. Your heart kicked up—not just from the thrill, but from the rawness of being out here, away from all the noise and rules. The car came to a stop near the edge of the woods. Tommy killed the engine, and the world fell almost completely silent—except for the chirp of night creatures and the distant rush of a small creek.

“C’mon,” he whispered, swinging open the door and jumping out. You followed, the box of cake clutched tight in your hands.

He led the way, moving with that familiar ease through brambles and shadows, scaling the low fence at the preserve’s border without hesitation. You paused for a breath, the cool night air washing over you, then hoisted yourself up beside him on the wooden ledge. From here, the town sprawled out beneath you—a scattering of sleepy lights blinking against the dark canvas of the night. It was quiet, save for the distant hum of life.

Tommy pulled the cake from the box and handed you a plastic fork. You both ate in companionable silence, the frosting sticky on your fingers, the cold cake sweet and real.

“Thanks,” he said finally, voice softer than before. “For this. For everything.” You shrugged, your eyes fixed on the stars just barely visible through the trees. “I’m glad you came,” you admitted quietly.

He looked over, that half-smile still lingering. “Yeah, me too.”

The night stretched out around you—endless and wild, just like the two of you.

Tommy poked at the soft cake with his fork, eyes fixed on the distant glow of the town below. After a long moment, he finally spoke—voice low, careful.

“Hey… I might be leaving.. earlier than I had planned…" A beat, "… August.”

Your fork froze mid-air. The words hit like a fist to your gut—sharp, unexpected. You blinked, trying to steady your breath, but it caught in your throat.

“August? That soon?” Your voice cracked, disbelief sharpening every syllable. “You never said— I thought you were still figuring it out. You didn’t even talk to me about this."

"You'll be missing senior year—You're dropping out?" 

The questions rattled in your throat. 

He looked away, jaw tight. “I didn’t wanna worry you.”

But you felt the sting of betrayal twist inside your chest. 

You trusted him. You thought he’d hold onto this secret a little longer, or better yet, let you in before deciding something so big.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you trusted me,” Your voice was raw, trembling. “I was here—waiting. Thinking, maybe we had more time.”

Tommy’s hand reached out hesitantly, but you pulled back, the hurt sharper than the night air.

“It’s not like I wanted to leave,” he snapped, voice rougher than you'd ever heard it. “You think this is what I want? I’ve got my dad breathing down my neck every damn day—I don’t even breathe right and he’s ready to throw a punch.”

You stilled, heart thudding, but he wasn’t done.

“I can’t live like that anymore. And I can’t stay here just because it’s easier for you.”

The silence hit like a slap.

Your lips parted, the words caught somewhere deep in your chest, burning like acid. “I didn’t ask you to stay for me, Tommy. I asked you not to disappear like I never mattered.”

His face tightened, jaw clenching.

“Yeah? Well I’m tired of being scared shitless in my own home,” he barked suddenly. “It ain’t all about you.”

The words dropped between you like a landmine.

He turned away, breath caught halfway between anger and regret, already knowing he’d gone too far. His shoulders slumped—just a bit—his hands flexing at his sides like he wished he could take it all back.

But the damage was done.

You turned your face toward the stars, blinking fast, hoping the cold night air would dry the sting in your eyes before it spilled over. Everything inside you cracked in quiet, invisible places.

He’d never spoken to you like that.

And still—it wasn't the anger that hurt.

It was the fact that maybe, deep down, he’d meant it.

The night suddenly felt wider. Like the space between you wasn’t just emotional—it was physical now, stretching mile by mile. And for the first time, you wondered if there would ever be enough left to come back to.

It was already unraveling. And neither of you knew how to stop it.

Your chest tightened, panic bubbling up like acid in your throat. The room spun just a little too fast.

“I_—I…_ I have to go home,” you blurted out, voice shaking. “This isn’t a good idea. Being here, with you—.”

Tommy’s eyes snapped to yours, confused, hurt. “What are you talking about?”

But you shook your head, bitter tears pooling behind your lashes. “You’re leaving. You’re not waiting. You’re already gone, Tommy. I feel like I’m just… a stop before the next thing, and maybe you don’t even care if I’m still here when you’re gone—here, without you.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “That’s not fair.”

You scoffed, voice cracking, “What’s fair about this? I thought we were something. I thought I mattered more than some damn deadline.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched. “You think I want this? You think I want to hurt you?”

“Then don’t leave like this. Don’t just decide without me,” you snapped, your heart shattering with every word.

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. Finally, he ran a hand through his hair, fingers tightening against thick curls, voice low. “Look, I’m not saying goodbye yet. I’m just trying to figure it out. I don’t know how this ends either.”

You swallowed hard, wiping your face roughly. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe there is no ending. Maybe this is the ending."

Tommy’s gaze softened, but the weight still hung in the air: “I don’t want to lose you.”

You gave a bitter laugh, “You don't know what you want to lose."

And with that, the tension simmered but didn’t fully fade. The night wrapped around you both—heavy, uncertain, and raw with things left unsaid.

ONE WEEK LATER

The week that followed felt endless. Your world shrank down to the four walls of your bedroom, the heavy weight of silence pressing in on you like a stone. You were grounded—no phone calls, no going out, no distractions—just you and the growing ache in your chest. Your father was pretty mad about the car, evidently. 

Every afternoon, you stared out your window, hoping for a sign, some kind of message from Tommy. But there was only stillness. No knocks, no visits, no echoes of his laugh.

It was then, in the quiet and loneliness, that the truth settled deep and stubborn—you loved him. Not just as a friend, but something more, something raw and real. And now, you were losing him. Losing him to something you couldn’t fight, couldn’t change. Days passed in a blur of walls, until one night, just as the sky turned navy and the stars blinked awake, you heard it—a sharp knock at your window. Your heart leapt, hope rising, but you stayed still. Too scared to move. Too numb to answer.

Another knock. Then another.

When you still didn’t respond, the unmistakable sound of a lock snapping cracked through the night.

Your breath caught as the window slid open, and there he was—Tommy, breathless, eyes wild but filled with something fierce.

“I’m not letting you shut me out,” he muttered, voice rough with desperation.

You didn’t know if you wanted to be mad or relieved. 

All you knew was that suddenly, the walls around you weren’t so suffocating anymore.

It felt like for the first time in a week, you had inhaled.

"Did you just break my fuckin’ window?" you hissed, sitting up in bed as the frame creaked and gave way.

Tommy’s hands were already gripping the sill, one leg halfway in like he was scaling enemy territory. "Wasn’t gonna just sit out there all night while you ignored me."

"You broke the lock!"

"You weren’t answerin’."

You stared at him, lip trembling, rage and heartbreak fusing into something sharp. “You can’t just—crawl through here like everything’s fine.”

He stepped in slowly, the hardwood creaking beneath his boots. His hair was messier than usual, face was flushed like he’d been pacing outside for a while. “Didn’t come to pretend it’s fine.”

You looked away, arms crossed tight over your chest, trying to keep yourself from unraveling. “You left. You chose to leave, Tommy. And you didn’t even tell me ‘til the night of your damn birthday.”

“I was gonna—”

“But you didn’t!” Your voice cracked, too loud for the hour. You didn’t care. “You waited until I was in a car with you. After I brought the cake. After I climbed your goddamn roof. You waited ‘til I was too far in to walk away easily.”

He ran a hand through his curls, jaw clenched. “You think it’s been easy for me? You think I want to leave?”

“You didn’t have to make the choice yet.” Your voice broke into something smaller. “But you did. You made it without me. Like I was just—I dunno. Temporary.”

That landed. You saw it in his face.

Tommy stepped forward, careful, like you might bolt. “You ain’t temporary. Not to me.”

You looked at him, tears blurring the edges of your vision. “Then why does it feel like I already lost you?”

Silence.

He sat at the edge of your bed, hands clasped, elbows on his knees. 

“Because I was stupid. I should’ve told you sooner. Should’ve asked what you thought. I just—I got scared, alright? Scared you’d look at me differently. That you’d stop… carin’.”

You didn’t say anything, just stared at him, your throat tight and hot.

“I’m not askin’ you to be okay with it,” he muttered, softer now. “I just needed you to know that this—you—mean more to me than anything I’m walkin’ into.”

You wiped your face with the back of your sleeve, breathing raggedly. Not remembering when the tears had started, only recognizing that they came out in heavy, depleted gasps, “I hate that I love you."

He blinked. His mouth opened—then shut.

Then opened again, “Say that again.”

You just shook your head and turned away, too tired, too wrecked.

But he was already pulling you into him, arms tight around your shoulders, voice low and cracking against your ear.

“I love you, too." A beat, "God help me, I do.”

And for the first time in days, the tightness in your chest loosened—just a little. You're kids. Teenagers. Young adults, or whatever. Nobody knows what love is, really. If it's sitting on your floor, giggling to old scratchy records, or bragging about how he almost scored a detention after fifth period. Or, when you're curled up in your bed listening to him talk about the way his dad ruthlessly beats him. How each scratch, and old scabbed scar, made you feel sick. Nauseated. When you felt ugly after homecoming, and he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear—so carefully, it felt like he was touching glass. And that was the first time you felt the burn. The—all-consuming, swallowing burn in your stomach. Helping him study for his chemistry final, and realizing that he's a lot brighter than he lets on to be. He hides it, almost. 

The silence settled between you like fog—thick, warm, but charged with something that made your fingers twitch against the fabric of his shirt. You hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t meant to feel it, let alone speak it out loud. But it was already in the air. Spoken. Tangible. And now he was holding you like he meant to protect you from the world falling apart, the same way he always had—but different. This time, there was weight behind it. No more pretending. No more circling what this was. His thumb moved, slow and calloused, brushing just under your eye. Wiping away the last of the tears. You leaned into it before you could stop yourself.

“You serious?” he murmured, barely above a whisper, like he couldn’t believe it was real. You gave a small, wordless nod, not trusting your voice. But he saw it. Felt it. And whatever restraint he was holding on to finally crumbled.

His forehead leaned against yours first. Breath warm, shared between you in the space of a heartbeat. Then, slowly, tentatively—his nose brushed yours. And then he kissed you. Soft at first. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he touched you too hard. His lips were warm, unsure but wanting. Desperate in a way you hadn’t expected, like he’d been holding back for years and now the dam had cracked.

You kissed him back just as desperately, hands curling into his t-shirt, pulling him in closer, grounding yourself in the only thing that felt real—him. The pain, the fear, the ache of knowing he’d be gone soon—all of it dissolved into that kiss. The way he cupped your face like he was memorizing every inch. Into the little gasp you let out when his hand moved to the small of your back, keeping you close. When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless and a little dazed, he let out the smallest laugh—barely a sound, really—like he couldn’t believe it had happened.

“You know this changes everything, right?” he whispered.

You nodded, heart pounding. “Yeah.”

"Yeah—I know." 

And you meant it. Even if it hurt. Even if the summer ended, and he'd leave, and nothing would ever be the same again. For right now, he was here. And he was yours.

But it didn’t. It changed nothing.

Not really.

You woke up to an empty room. A hollow space where warmth had been just hours before. The blanket was still half-pushed down from where he'd slid out, his scent still clinging faintly to the pillow beside yours—sweat, earth, cheap soap, and something that was just him.

But he was gone.

He usually was, sure. Slipping out before sunrise, before your parents could catch him, before the world could press its weight back on his shoulders. But this time… it wasn’t the same. This wasn’t sneaking out. This wasn’t teenage rebellion or a midnight escape. This felt like a goodbye.

Your chest ached, heavy with the realization. Something cold coiled in your gut, worse than guilt, worse than anger. It was an absence. A ghost before the body was even gone.

You sat up, pulling your knees to your chest as you stared at the open window. 

The lock he’d broken was still busted. Hanging loose.

You told yourself not to cry.

That it was just Tommy. 

That he’d be back like always. Grinning like an idiot, calling you baby-girl or some stupid nickname he made up just to get under your skin. Until last night, whispering it into your ear as you followed the motions of each other's hands slipping underneath fabric. An Intimacy you never thought you'd have shared—especially with your best friend. 

But your throat burned. Your chest clenched.

Because deep down, under all the denial, you already knew.

Tommy Miller just broke your fucking heart. 

WINTER OF 1993 Austin, Texas

Tap.  

A pause.  

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of the pen striking the podium sliced through the idle hum of the lecture hall. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting the room in a dull, bone-colored glow. Your eyes blinked against it, focus drifting between the empty lines of your notebook and the voice that finally broke the silence. 

What a familiar rhythm. 

“Mushrooms,” the professor said, slow and sure, “are just like us.”

You shifted in your seat, the denim of your jacket brushing against worn plastic armrests. 

No one around you laughed. Not today.

Dr. Halpern was a known eccentric—half biologist, half prophet, and all intensity. His lectures were unpredictable. Sometimes thrilling. Sometimes unnerving. Always precise. Today, though, there was something different in the way he carried the silence between each word.

“Cordyceps,” he said, clicking the projector remote with a twitch of his fingers. A distorted image appeared: an ant, stiff and lifeless, with a fungal stalk piercing through its skull.

“It’s a parasitic fungus. Latches onto the brain. Manipulates behavior. Forces movement. Controls the host. The body moves, but the mind is no longer its own.”

He spoke cleanly, clinically. But something in his tone itched beneath your skin.

The room had gone still, too still. Pens stopped scratching. Someone a few rows back let their leg stop bouncing.

“So could it affect humans?” a voice asked. It was a half-laughing question, barely confident enough to be heard.

Dr. Halpern smiled. Not kindly.

“No. Not yet. Not with current climate conditions.”

A pause.

“But it’s not entirely out of the question.”

Another click. A still of a rainforest. Then a slide of a CDC chart. Then nothing.

“All it takes is temperature. Adaptation. A small shift in the way the world turns.”

He said it like a fact, not fiction. And you could feel the way the words settled in your chest, like dust that wouldn’t move even if you coughed.

You looked down at your notes. Still blank. Still waiting.

Outside, the sun shone heavy and golden through the tall lecture windows. But it felt cold.

The room felt too quiet now. The kind of quiet that you knew would stick with you long after the bell rang. The kind of quiet that doesn’t leave your bones, even after the semester ends. And maybe, for the first time, you wondered what the end of the world would actually feel like. The lecture continued for what felt like hours, brain drifting in and out of focus. Eventually, everyone stood up and packed, some dropping off their statements at the front. 

You slipped the paper across the edge of Dr. Halpern’s desk, the printed pages curling slightly from where your fingers had gripped them too hard during the walk across campus. He didn’t look up right away. Instead, he pinched the top corner of the paper between two fingers and tugged it forward, adjusting his glasses. His lips moved silently as he scanned the title. Then, he made a sound—small, almost amused. Not unkind. “This is the piece on environmental psychology and developmental trauma?”

You nodded. Words caught in your throat. You hadn’t given it a title. Didn’t know how to.

His eyes scanned the first paragraph again, then flicked to yours.

“The path you drew between cyclical abuse and emotional response mechanisms is… intense,” he said plainly. “The father figure—violent, unpredictable. And the boy, always afraid, always calculating. How he survives in that house… It’s vivid. Uncomfortably so.”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. You weren’t ready to lie and call it fiction.

“But it’s excellent work,” he added, softer this time. “Unflinching. Brutal in the right places. There’s clarity in your anger. And control in the way you let it bleed through.”

He tapped the pages with the back of his pen, then gave a slow nod. “You’ve got a good voice. You should use it.”

You nodded again, more out of instinct than conviction. Your hand was already on your bag strap, itching to escape. His compliment lingered in the air between you, like smoke from a match that had just gone out. The moment felt too quiet. Too seen. You muttered a thank you and turned, heart thudding too fast in your chest. The hallway outside was humming with students, the overhead fluorescents buzzing, a girl laughing too loudly into a payphone. You leaned your back against the brick wall just outside the classroom, staring down at the empty palm of your hand like it should be holding something.

You hadn’t said his name once in the essay. But every sentence was his.

Every bruised sentence. Every corner of the page filled with that house, that silence, that boy with scraped knuckles and too-wide eyes. 

Tommy.

authors note: hi i love him, your honor. anyway feedback is appreciated tyvm!!!

"STARK’S GARAGE. OPEN LATE."

You limp inside.

And that’s when you meet him.

Grease stains up to his forearms. Dark hair tied back. A black henley that fits like sin.

He’s got a socket wrench in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

And he looks at you like he’s already decided you’re a problem.

“Shop’s closed,” he says.

You blink.

“It says open.”

He jerks his chin toward the door. “Sign’s stuck.”

You cross your arms.

“My car’s dead on the road. I just need help getting it towed.”

“Not a tow company.”

“You have a truck.”

He lifts a brow. “And you’ve got nerve.”

“Do you always treat people like shit, or am I just lucky?”

He smirks.

And God help you—it's attractive.

“Depends if they walk in like they own the place,” he mutters.

You pause.

Take a breath.

“My dad just died,” you say flatly. “I wasn’t trying to own anything. Just trying not to fall apart in the road.”

Something flickers behind his eyes.

He sets the wrench down.

“Keys?”

You blink. “What?”

“Give me your keys. I’ll tow it.”

You hand them over.

His hand brushes yours.

It’s warm. Steady.

You hate how badly you want to feel it again.

The tow takes ten minutes.

He’s silent the whole time.

You watch from the passenger seat of his truck while he hauls your car onto the flatbed with quiet, practiced strength.

Your legs are still shaking.

But your hands are calm.

That doesn’t happen around strangers.

“Engine’s toast,” he says, once you’re back in the garage. “But the body’s fine.”

You nod absently.

He glances at your heels. “You got a place to stay?”

You look away.

“No.”

He sighs.

Wipes his hands on a rag.

“C’mere.”

You follow him to a tiny back office that smells like leather and burnt coffee.

He opens a drawer, pulls out a key.

“There’s a room upstairs. Couch folds out. Shower works. No charge.”

You stare at him.

“Why are you helping me?”

He shrugs. “Everyone’s got a worst day. Seems like you found yours.”

You learn his name later that night.

James Barnes.

But everyone calls him Bucky.

He owns the garage.

Runs a bike club out back.

Drinks his coffee black. Doesn’t talk about his past. Doesn’t ask about yours.

You learn he’s a former soldier.

That he’s not from here.

That he only sleeps three hours at a time.

You learn that his left arm is metal.

And that no one in town asks why.

You stay one night.

Then three.

Then a week.

He lets you work the front desk. Just until your car’s fixed.

But even after it’s running, you don’t leave.

You’re not sure when the town stopped feeling like a layover and started feeling like penance.

But Bucky never asks questions.

Just nods toward the guest room each night.

Leaves black coffee for you each morning.

And teaches you how to rebuild things with your hands instead of your heart.

The first time he touches you, it’s unintentional.

You’re under the hood of a 1970s Chevelle, cursing the seized bolt.

He steps behind you.

Reaches around with one hand to brace the socket.

His other hand settles low on your hip for balance.

You freeze.

So does he.

But he doesn’t move.

You don’t either.

The silence burns.

When he finally steps back, neither of you say a word.

But the air between you has changed.

You start craving it.

Two nights later, you kiss him first.

It’s behind the garage, under a sky cracked open with stars.

You’re leaning against the chain-link fence, laughing about some dumb customer who asked for “tire juice.”

And then you’re kissing.

Hard.

Fast.

Desperate.

His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

Yours twist in his shirt like you’ll drown if you let go.

You don’t make it inside.

He lifts you onto the workbench.

And makes you come with your dress hitched around your thighs and his name on your lips like salvation.

You don’t talk about it.

The next morning, he pours your coffee like usual.

But he watches you longer.

And you let him.

A month passes.

You move your suitcase upstairs.

He doesn’t say anything.

But you catch him smiling at it.

You start calling the guest room our room.

He still won’t sleep next to you.

You let it slide.

You learn his scars by touch, not explanation.

You learn what songs he plays when he’s mad.

You learn that he drinks too much when he dreams of war.

You learn that he loves you long before he says it.

The first time he whispers it, you’re standing in the rain beside his motorcycle.

He tugs your helmet strap gently, eyes fierce.

“If you go,” he murmurs, “don’t bother coming back.”

You blink.

“I’m just going to the store.”

“I mean it,” he says. “You leave for real—you don’t get to take me with you.”

Your heart cracks.

“Buck—”

“I love you,” he says, fierce and low. “But I won’t be abandoned again.”

You reach for him.

Kiss the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not my father,” you whisper.

His voice breaks.

“Neither am I.”

I know that you’ve got daddy issues / And I do too.

He doesn’t talk about his old man much.

Just once.

You find him in the garage late one night, knuckles split, breath ragged.

He tells you about the fists.

The shouting.

The way he learned early that silence was safer than softness.

You hold his hand.

And tell him about the funeral.

The guilt.

The way you still dream of his voice, even if it was never kind.

You sit on the floor of the garage with whiskey between you and pain in your blood.

And when you wake the next morning in his arms, neither of you feels dirty about it.

Just clean.

New.

One night, a stranger rides into town.

Leather cut.

Skull ring.

Looks at you too long.

Bucky watches.

Doesn’t say a word.

Until the man follows you into the back office.

You tell him to leave.

He doesn’t.

And then Bucky is there.

Fists flying.

Voice like thunder.

“You touch her, I break your spine.”

You’ve never seen him that feral.

But you’re not scared.

Because his fury isn’t aimless.

It’s protective.

It’s primal.

It’s love.

Later, he wipes the blood off his knuckles and kisses your palms.

“I won’t lose you,” he murmurs.

“You won’t,” you promise.

But you both know fear isn’t rational.

And love doesn’t always fix what came before.

The club grows.

The town learns to look at you differently.

Less like a stray.

More like something claimed.

You don’t mind.

Because Bucky never cages you.

He just makes sure you know the way home.

One afternoon, you ask him what forever looks like.

He doesn’t flinch.

Just hands you a ring box covered in grease smudges and velvet hope.

You marry him in the back of the garage.

Motor oil on your hands.

Leather jacket over your shoulders.

You kiss him to the roar of his bike and the sound of your own name changed in his mouth.

Years pass.

Your father’s voice fades.

Your old wounds scar.

But your love?

It stays wild.

Like the engines.

Like the man.

Like the version of yourself you found in the wreckage and built new with his hands on your spine.

And if I could change, I would take all the shame away. But you know I can’t.

He never tries to fix you.

And you never try to tame him.

But together?

You’re something holy.

Something rebuilt.

Home. That word didn’t sit right anymore.

Still, there were benefits. No rent. Warm meals. A roof that didn't leak. Time, too—time to write from the corner of your old bedroom, the wallpaper still faded in the shape of childhood posters. In exchange, you’d help out around the house. Maybe lend your skills to the family business, if they asked.

It was manageable. Comfortable, even.

Or so you told yourself.

Until the past started pressing in, as soft as a breath on your neck. Austin carried its ghosts well, and you knew exactly which ones still lingered. The Miller family hadn’t left town. You hadn’t dared drive past their old place—hadn’t even thought about it, not really.

Too afraid you'd catch a glimpse.

Too afraid you wouldn’t. 

Now, every trip to the store felt like a gamble. You kept your head down in aisles, your chest tightening at the sound of familiar boots scuffing tile. The shape of a man’s shoulders could turn your blood cold in an instant.

It wasn’t just home anymore. It was haunted.

And you weren’t sure you were ready to face the one ghost still walking around in broad daylight.

It’s stupid, really—how he still lives in the corners of your mind after all these years.

Especially now, back in your childhood room, sitting cross-legged on the same threadbare carpet, staring at that rusted metal tin under your bed. 

You haven’t touched it. Haven’t dared. It’s exactly where you left it, gathering dust like the part of you that never moved on.

Was he still in town? Married? Kids tugging at his sleeves, calling him dad? 

Hell, if you knew. Hell, if you wanted to know.

What you did know was this: whatever you and Tommy had, it had taken root deep—deeper than you realized until you came back. And now it stretched through you like ivy, tightening with every breath, every thought that wandered too far into the past. 

It didn’t just haunt you. It hollowed you out.

You always thought teenage love was supposed to fade—burn fast, leave nothing but a scorched memory. Something you could laugh about years later, over drinks with old friends.

But this? This wasn’t that.

This was different. This one never died. And part of you was terrified it never would.

The grocery store was nearly empty—just the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional wheel squeak from a lone cart. Nine p.m. on a Wednesday was strategic. No small talk. No familiar faces. Just you, the shelves, and the quiet. You could wander without armor, float between aisles like a ghost.

A bottle of wine. A couple of wilting vegetables. A gallon of water. Your cart looked more like a motel mini-fridge than the groceries of someone edging toward thirty. 

You rounded the corner, drawn by the cereal aisle like a moth to a glow. You told yourself you’d skip it. Be good. Grab something green. But what else would keep you company at midnight, spoon in hand, staring at the glow of the fridge light?

Cheerios.

You reached forward—and so did someone else.

Your hand met theirs. Warm. Small. Fingers painted with chipped purple nail polish, a fraying string bracelet wrapped around the wrist.

Something soft. Something familiar.

And suddenly, the quiet wasn’t so quiet anymore.

“Aren’t you a little old to be buyin’ Cheerios?”

The voice was laced with a southern drawl—sharp, playful, too clever for its own good. She sounded bold. Bright. And young. Really young.

You glanced over and blinked. She was young. A kid, no more than ten, maybe eleven. Big eyes, a spark of mischief, and all the confidence in the world.

Without thinking, your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.

“Where the hell are your parents?”

Smooth. Real smooth. Maybe not the best thing to say to a stranger’s child. 

Definitely not in the cereal aisle. Definitely not while holding a box of Cheerios like some kind of existential prop. 

You sighed internally, wondering when exactly your life had become a string of awkward moments and low-stakes public breakdowns. Before you could backpedal, a voice rang out behind her—low, worn, and gravel-thick.

“Sarah!”

It hit like a dropped match on dry grass. That voice. You hadn’t heard it in years, but your body remembered before your mind did—spine stiff, breath caught, blood rushing somewhere you couldn’t name.

Familiar. Undeniably. Panic took the wheel.

You held out the box, almost like an offering. “Here—take it.”

Your voice cracked on the edge of a breath as you gripped the cart’s handle, fingers tightening like it might anchor you to the moment. You considered walking away. You wanted to walk away.

But something in you hesitated. Stayed. Hoping—dreading—that your gut was right. That the familiar voice wasn’t just a cruel echo. There are faces that time can’t erase. Some are etched too deeply. Etched into blood, into memory, into the space between heartbeats.

“Am I even allowed to take Cheerios from strangers?” the girl muttered as she crossed the aisle, drifting back to his side with all the ease of someone who knew exactly where she belonged.

He shot her a look—half stern, half fond. Then, as if pulled by some invisible thread, he lifted his head. And your whole world tilted. For a moment, your body didn’t know what to do. Vomit? Collapse? Spontaneously combust? All of the above?

You stared. Then, softly—barely above a whisper, like saying it too loud might break something—you breathed it out:

“Joel?”

You hadn’t seen this man since—God, what? 1990? And now he was here. In front of you. Looking older, sure—but still him. Still Joel. Lines carved deeper into his face, a little more tired in the eyes, but the foundation was unchanged. Solid. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

Then your gaze dropped.

Wait.

Wait.

Does he have a kid?

Your brain scrambled to catch up, blinking fast as your eyes darted from the girl—still clutching the box of Cheerios—to him. Back and forth like a bad tennis match. You were trying to do the math in your head, but none of it added up, and suddenly the air felt too thin in your lungs.

Yeah. Yeah, you might actually throw up.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you—jaw tight, unreadable. That Miller silence, always more loaded than a whole damn conversation. He definitely recognized you. You could see it in the way his eyes no longer sat tired and low. 

“She yours?” you finally managed, voice rough around the edges. It wasn’t judgment, not really. Just shock. Curiosity wrapped in disbelief.

He scratched at his beard. “Yeah,” he said, simply. “She’s mine.”

Something behind your ribs clenched. Not jealousy—no, that wasn’t fair. It was more like grief with nowhere to go. Like walking through the front door of a house you thought had burned down. Because this means the chances of his brother being around are only larger. 

“Oh, right—Didn't... know,” you murmured.

He gave you that look.

The same one he used to shoot your way when you were seventeen and reckless with love—when he was older, angrier, and always carrying the weight of something he refused to name. Eyebrows lifted just slightly, one corner of his mouth tugging like he might laugh, or maybe just break.

“Yeah, well,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “Life’s funny like that.”

You felt it—the sting, low and stupid, blooming behind your ribs. Your throat tightened.

Don’t ask. Don’t do it. Don’t say his name. Don’t let it crawl out of your mouth like some pathetic ghost. You’re older now. Stronger. You survived it, remember?

You even believed that for a second. Then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“How’s your brother?”

God. Fuck.

Joel’s jaw tensed, the weight of the question landing between you both like a dropped hammer. He looked away, just for a second—just long enough to say everything he didn’t. His hand rubbed at the back of his neck, and Sarah, still clutching the box, watched the moment pass with the quiet awareness only kids had.

“He’s…” Joel started, then hesitated. “He’s around.”

Around.

That word—around—cut deeper than a clean answer ever could.

Around as in… here? This very fucking store? Around as in… Alive? 

You nodded slowly, lashes fluttering like your body was trying to blink away what your heart refused to accept. Of course, he was around. Somewhere. 

Living a life with wide open skies and no trace of you in it. Breathing. Existing.

Your arms folded across your chest—not defensively, but like scaffolding, like something to keep your ribs from caving in. Joel shifted beside the cart. At first, it was just a glance. A habitual scan. But then—he really looked. You felt it. That weight behind his eyes. 

Like he was seeing something impossible. Like he was trying to stitch the image of you now to the ghost of the girl you once were—laughing barefoot on the Miller porch, chasing fireflies, lips stained with cherry popsicles. His brother was never far behind.

Joel’s brow furrowed, and his voice dropped low.

“You grew up.”

It wasn’t said with surprise, exactly. More like quiet awe. Or regret.

You managed a tired smile. “Yeah—Life's funny like that." Only echoing his words from earlier.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he added, his tone edging toward something heavier, quieter.

You swallowed. “Didn’t think I’d come back.”

He nodded. It hung between you. All of it.

“I’d say I’m sorry,” Joel muttered, glancing toward Sarah, who had wandered a few steps ahead, already bored of the grown-up tension. “For what he did. But I figure that ain’t mine to apologize for.”

Your throat tightened. “No. It’s not.”

A long beat passed.

Then Joel’s voice softened in a way you hadn’t heard since you were a kid and scraped your knee on his driveway.

“But he was a damn fool for leavin’ you like that.”

You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t trust your voice not to crack.

Instead, you asked, gently—like the wind might blow the moment away if you weren’t careful:  

“Does he still live around here?”

Joel hesitated. That pause said more than words ever could.

“He’s back,” he said finally. “Moved back a while ago."

"My guest bedroom...” He said it like it was a joke. 

You felt something in your chest slide loose. Raw. Heavy.

Joel glanced down the aisle.

“If you want…I can let him know I saw you.”

You looked away. At the flickering grocery lights, at the Cheerios box still clenched in your hand like it meant something.

Then: “No.”

Joel blinked. “No?”

Maybe?

No.

You shook your head, voice tight. “He's smart—he knows where to find me.”

And with that, you turned—hands tight around the cart handle, knuckles pale with restraint, as if you could just walk away. Like the past wasn’t licking up your spine like fire. Like it didn’t still have teeth.

You made it to the next aisle before the mask cracked.

Your hand flew to your chest, gripping at fabric, trying to anchor yourself, trying to breathe. But the air wouldn’t come. Not fully. Every inhale felt like it got caught somewhere in your throat, shallow and scraping.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, drowning out the overhead music, the hum of fluorescent lights, and the rest of the world. You leaned against the shelf, next to a row of canned beans and sadness, and let the weight settle in.

He was here.

He left and never looked back. But you? You came home.

The house felt smaller than it used to. Every creak in the floorboard was louder, every familiar room more suffocating. Being home again wasn’t as soft as you thought it’d be. It was rigid. Airless. Your old bedroom still smelled faintly of dust and childhood. But now, the walls felt too close. Too loud. You couldn’t sit still in it for long—pacing was safer. Something about the silence made your thoughts too sharp, too unkind.

You kept telling yourself you were fine. That one aisle encounter in a grocery store didn’t mean anything. That Joel’s words didn’t loop in your brain at night like a skipping record.

“He’s around.”

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“He was a damn fool.”

You hadn’t even unpacked fully. Suitcases still half-zipped, laundry spilling over the edges. You told your mom you'd get to it. You lied.

The worst part?

You started hearing things. Little things. The clink of boots outside. A truck engine that sounded too familiar. That gravelly voice, echoing where it wasn’t. You’d look out the window. Nothing.

The metal tin under your bed—still untouched—started to feel radioactive. You’d stare at it some nights like it might burst open on its own, spill out the parts of you he never came back for.

The food tasted like cardboard. You stopped writing. Sat in front of your laptop, fingers frozen above the keys, stuck in a loop of opening old drafts and closing them again.

Your mother noticed. Asked gently if everything was alright, “Just tired.” You meant... I think I’m falling apart, and I don’t know how to stop it. Until the dam finally broke. In the thick of your late-night anxiety spiral, you did what you always did when your mind wouldn’t stop racing—you fled to your laptop. The glow of the screen was a small comfort, a lifeline to something tangible.

You dove into the local municipal website, fingers trembling as you searched the address you once knew like the back of your hand: the old Miller house.

It had been sold.

Two years ago.

That meant they were gone. They weren’t here anymore. Not in that house. Not in the place that held all the ghosts you thought you’d outrun.

And, you weren’t going to camp outside the grocery store, waiting for Joel to come back, begging him to say something—anything—about his brother.

You weren’t that crazy. Okay, maybe you were.

You exhaled slowly, the breath tight and uneven as you tried to push back the anxious knot settling deep in your stomach. You mindlessly scrolled through the local ads, searching for something to distract, anything to grab onto.

That’s when it jumped out at you.

Your eyes locked on the listing: Miller Construction — bold letters beneath a grainy photo of a faded pickup truck and a logo that looked slapped together but somehow genuine.

And there it was. A phone number.

You stared at it for what felt like minutes, heart pounding in a frantic rhythm that only anxiety could compose. Your fingers itched to pick up the phone, to dial those digits and shatter the silence that had been suffocating you for weeks.

But then doubt crept in.

What if no one picks up?

What if Joel answers?

Fuck, what if Tommy answers?

What if it’s not even them anymore?

Your mind spun, painting every worst-case scenario in vivid, merciless detail.

You told yourself, Maybe it’s better not to know. Still, your thumb hovered over the screen, trembling. One call could change everything. Or ruin what little peace you’d fought to keep. The room felt smaller. The air is heavier. You closed your eyes and swallowed hard.

Just one call. But you didn’t do it. You didn’t call.

Because some battles aren’t meant to be won—not yet. Not when the wounds are still raw, and the cost too high. Maybe it was finally time to kill that stubborn dream. The one you’d been clutching like a lifeline—the future you almost had with Tommy, back when everything still felt possible.

The future where you held his hand through late-night study sessions and half-forgotten promises. You built a life together, one small piece at a time, giving him the family he never got to have. Where he escaped the shadows of his past and made his own way—free and whole.

But not in this life. No. This life was different. In this life, you weren’t meant for that kind of happiness. Not with him. And maybe, just maybe, it was time to let that ghost go.

To mourn what could have been. And learn how to live without it.

Tomorrow, you told yourself.

Tomorrow you’ll wake up, open your laptop, and finally write again. You’ll make a real breakfast—eggs, toast, coffee strong enough to chase away the weight in your chest. You’ll laugh when your dad grumbles about the news, and nod along when your mom reminds you to check the mail.

And maybe, just maybe, it’ll feel like something in you finally let go.

Like some part of that aching, hollow dream was finally laid to rest.

You’d mourned it. Buried it. Let yourself believe you’d moved on.  

Or at the very least—you were trying to.

And for a while, it almost worked. You made that breakfast. Brewed that coffee. Sat at the kitchen table and filled blank pages like your life depended on it. Day after day, you showed up for yourself. Pretending the ache had dulled, that time was stitching over the old wound. And for nearly a month, the rhythm held. You wrote. You helped around the house. You laughed when it was called for, and cried only when no one was looking.

You were healing. Or faking it well enough that it didn’t matter. Until one morning, the pattern cracked wide open— and nothing felt safe after that.

The knock came just past nine. Sharp. Measured. The kind of knock that wasn’t just passing through. You shuffled to the door, mug in hand, warmth still clutched between your palms. You weren’t expecting anyone. The morning was still fragile. Undisturbed.

Until you opened the door.

Joel Miller.

Joel Miller stood on your front step like a fragment of some half-buried memory you’d spent the last two weeks trying to drown. Even his face reminded you of his younger brother.

Older now. Weathered. But still him. His voice was rough with that dry Southern rasp, “Your dad around? He said we were clear to start this mornin’.”

You blinked.

“…Start what?”

He nodded back toward the curb, where a truck idled loudly and low, “Backyard. Said it needed regrading. New fence. We're doin' a couple other things.”

You gripped the doorframe like it might help you stay tethered.

'We'

'We're'

You followed his gaze.

Another figure rounded the truck—shoulders broad, posture familiar even after all these years. You didn’t need to see his face. You knew that walk. You knew that silence.

The past wasn’t dead. It had just been biding its time. Curled in the corners of your quiet life, patient and unblinking—waiting for the right moment to crawl back in.

You stared at Joel like he’d cracked open something sacred, like he’d reached through time and dragged your ghost straight into the daylight. He stepped into the house casually, like nothing was out of place, like this wasn’t a ruin you’d spent years quietly rebuilding.

Your voice came out thin. Unsteady.

“Why—” Your voice cracked under the weight of it, barely holding shape as you forced the word out. You swallowed hard, tried again, and tried to steady yourself. “You brought him?”

Joel didn’t flinch. He stood like stone, hands in his pockets, gaze level—not cruel, just worn down by time and truth. “Didn’t know your dad was your dad until we pulled up,” he said, voice flat, matter-of-fact. “Work’s work.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. The tight coil in your chest drew tighter, shoulders pulling inward like armor about to snap shut. “You didn’t know that my childhood home was my home?” Your tone sharpened. Bitter. “That’s bullshit, Joel.”

His jaw ticked. A tiny movement, a tell. But still, he didn’t deny it. “You think I remember every address from twenty years ago?” he muttered, but it wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even convincing.

“Didn’t think you’d be here.”

Your eyes drifted past Joel, drawn like a tide to the figure moving around the truck.

Tommy.

And God—he looked good. Time had carved him into something fuller, heavier at the shoulders, solid in a way that made the earth seem to hold its breath around him. That broad back, once boyish and lanky, now bore the shape of a man who carried too much. And still—still—he moved like he used to. That quiet, slow confidence that made you fall the first time.

His hair was slicked back now, all sharp and polished like he was trying to tame it—those wild curls that once spilled like ink between your fingers. Back then, they had a mind of their own. 

So did he.

Now? Now, he looked like a man trying to keep himself in check. A cowboy dressed for control. It didn’t suit him. Not entirely.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

You stepped onto the porch before hesitation could catch up to you. The screen door gave its familiar groan behind you, the sound slicing into the quiet morning like a memory you hadn’t invited. Sunlight spilled across the wooden planks, drawing a clean line between past and present—and you stood right at the edge of it.

He looked up.

Not startled. Not surprised. Like some part of him had known you were there all along. Like he’d been waiting. And without meaning to—without even really deciding to—you spoke.

“The back door’s open,” you said flatly, arms crossed tight against your chest. “I’ll leave the front unlocked, too. I’ve got work upstairs, so I won’t be in your way."

"... Just… try not to track mud through the house.”

Your voice was ice. Not cruel, but practiced. Sharp. The kind of cold you learned to wear like armor. You didn’t look directly at him—not for more than a second. Your gaze swept across the two brothers like they were just another chore to handle. Just another thing on your list.

Then, with the kind of grace only bitterness could teach, you pulled the screen door back. Just enough. Enough space for him to walk through.

If he wanted to. Tommy’s eyes lingered on yours, searching. But you didn’t give him anything. No softness. No invitation.

Only the door. A silent challenge.

He stepped forward, boots heavy against the porch boards. Hesitating at the threshold like a man about to cross into holy ground. Or wreckage.

He paused. “Thanks.”

You didn’t answer.

And then he slipped past you—into the house he hadn’t set foot in since he left it behind. Joel gave you a longer look. Not pitying. Just tired. Knowing. You turned without a word, shutting the screen door behind you. It snapped closed with a final, decisive click.

Upstairs, you sat at your desk. Fingers poised over your keyboard. But the words didn’t come.

Downstairs, you heard the quiet murmur of male voices. Boots scuffing against the tile. Familiar footsteps in an unfamiliar context.

The past wasn’t dead. It was walking through your childhood home. It was standing in your kitchen. It was breathing your air. 

You stared blankly at the blinking cursor, heart climbing into your throat. And then—uninvited, unwanted—came the thought: What if he never left this time? Would you even let him stay?

The next few days passed in a strange rhythm. Tight. Unyielding.

You kept to yourself. Mornings started early—coffee, eggs, laptop open, headphones in. A fortress of routine. You made sure to stay upstairs when the work started, and when you did come down, it was surgical. 

Quick. To the kitchen. To the laundry. Back up again. 

But somehow, Tommy was always there. Not talking. Not looking for conversation. Just… nearby.

He was in the hallway when you went to grab your charger. On the back steps, when you went to let the dog out. In the yard beneath your window, hammer in hand, sleeves rolled up. The exact kind of cruel coincidence that made the air feel thinner.

You didn’t speak. Not much.

When you passed each other in the hall, it was a glance. Maybe a nod. If he said “mornin’,” you didn’t answer.

When he asked once—just once—if you wanted anything from the hardware store, you said, “No.”

He brought back a bottle of your favorite iced tea anyway. Left it on the counter without a word.

You put it in the fridge and never drank it.

At night, you heard him laughing with Joel in the backyard, low and warm. That familiar sound—the one that used to carry across your bedroom floor like music when you were seventeen—now curled around the edges of your chest like smoke.

You stared at your ceiling for hours.

On the fifth day, you handed him a beer from the fridge.

It was nothing. Just a gesture. A momentary lapse in your rigid silence. It didn’t mean anything. Not a crack. Not a thaw. Not anything.

Right?

“Here,” you said, voice flat, nudging the chilled bottle through the half-open sliding door. “It’s like... eight hundred degrees out there.”

He glanced at it, then at you. The sun caught in his lashes, sweat clinging to the edge of his hairline. He didn’t smile.

He took it.

“Thanks,” he murmured, voice low, gravel-worn.

You nodded once, already stepping back, as if you stayed too long in his orbit, you'd come undone. “I didn’t do it to be nice,” you added, backing toward the stairs. “I just didn’t want you passing out in my yard.”

Tommy lifted the bottle in a small, sardonic toast, “Would hate to inconvenience you like that.”

You didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink.

You turned and walked away.

But it snagged something in your chest on the way out—like a fishhook caught beneath the ribs. Goddamn it. Was this how it was going to be? Was this all it was going to be?

No. No—you reminded yourself. Steeled your spine. This is how it should be.

Silent. Distant. Cold.

He left you. Walked out of your life like it was easy. Like you were just another part of the small-town scenery, he was shedding on his way to something bigger. Like what you had—what could’ve been—was forgettable.

Like you were.

You kept to that script for days.

Short answers. Avoiding eye contact. Locking yourself in your room to write and rewriting the same sentence fifteen times because your mind won't shut up.

And Tommy… he didn’t push. Not exactly. But he lingered. 

Took his breaks on the back steps just under your window. Adjusted his work schedule so he was still around when you came down for coffee. One evening, you walked into the garage to grab something—and found him already inside, fixing the latch on the side door. 

He startled, turned. So did you. 

You both froze in the dim light, dust swirling between you. He looked like he wanted to say something. You waited, against your better judgment. But he didn’t. So you walked away. Again.

You climbed the stairs like the house itself was heavier now, like the walls remembered everything you’d said—and all the things you didn’t. That night, you sat at your desk, the pale glow of your screen washing over your face. 

The document was still empty. Still waiting. The cursor blinked in the silence like a pulse—steady, unyielding. A heartbeat you couldn’t silence. 

A reminder that time hadn’t stopped, even if everything else had.

And for just a moment—just a breath suspended between memory and ache—you let yourself go back.

Back to that night. The night he left.

You remembered how small you felt, sitting on the edge of your bed. Your knees drawn up to your chest. Bare skin touching bare skin, like you could hold yourself together. 

The hum of cicadas outside had filled the space where his voice should’ve been. The night had swallowed him whole. And all you had left was the shape of him in your bedsheets, the echo of him in the room.

He never said goodbye.

Not a word. Not a note. Just gone.

And maybe that was the cruelest part—how he didn’t leave with a slammed door, didn’t give you a fight to cling to. He left softly. Quiet. Like he didn’t want to wake you. 

Like he thought erasing himself gently would somehow hurt less.

You could survive the loss, maybe. You’d done that already—day after day. 

But the not knowing. The lingering weight of all the almosts? That’s what gutted you.

Because how the hell are you supposed to stop loving someone who never let you say goodbye?

Someone who never gave you a final page to turn?

You didn’t want a clean break. You would’ve settled for jagged. 

Shattered. Anything other than this quiet, aching permanence. 

The grief of a love that just… drifted.

Like he took all the chapters you were meant to write together—and lit them on fire before you ever saw the ink.

How can you love someone you never closed a chapter with?

You didn’t have the answer. So you just lived. That’s all you could do.

The next morning was bleak. The kind that felt colorless from the moment you opened your eyes—sky the shade of wet concrete, air too still, too heavy. 

The kind of morning where nothing quite sits right on your skin. Sleep. Sleep and read. That’s the kind of morning this was. 

The boys had shown up early, hammers already echoing against the bones of the house by the time you dragged yourself from bed. The second addition—the part your parents conveniently forgot to tell you about—was underway. 

A whole wing is being built like an afterthought. Like the house needed more rooms to feel emptier.

You stood in the kitchen, pouring your coffee into your chipped mug, the one with the fading rim and spider-crack down the side. Your phone was pressed between your cheek and shoulder, your mother’s voice crackling through the receiver.

"Yes, Mom… I know," you said, your voice edged with sleep and irritation. "I’ll tell them not to use the darkwood."

You stared out the window as the boys moved like ghosts across your backyard. Dust in the air. Heat is already rising off the soil. You squinted.

There he was.

Tommy.

Shoulders bent under the weight of some lumber, jaw tight, shirt sticking to his back like it was a second skin. He looked like the summer you’d tried to forget. Just older. 

“I just don’t understand why you didn’t plan this before you left the country,” you muttered, lowering your voice. “You left me with the world’s most cryptic blueprint and no answers.”

Your mother sighed on the other end, already tuning you out.

“I have to go, sweetheart,” she said. “Tell Joel I said hi. And Tommy, too.”

No goodbye. You took a sip of the coffee, bitter and burnt, but it gave you something to hold. You opened the back door.

“Hey,” you called out, your voice cutting across the morning. Tommy looked up, blinking sweat from his lashes.

“No darkwood,” you said plainly. “Apparently, it clashes.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, leaned slightly on the beam in his hand. “What the hell doesn’t clash with this house?”

You almost smiled. Almost. But didn’t let the edges of your lips rise.

“My patience.”

He let out a breath of a laugh, then nodded, and turned back to the work.

You stood there for a moment longer, your fingers tightening around the handle of the mug, watching him move like he belonged to the earth. Like the weight of the wood grounded him. Like he didn’t once disappear from your life like a ghost at dawn.

You hated that it still made your heart ache.

And somehow—worse than anything—he always seemed to know when you were watching. Like there was some invisible thread still strung tight between the two of you, humming in the silence, pulling at the air when your gaze lingered too long.

As he rounded the corner of the house, he paused—just once. Looked back.

And your eyes met. It was brief. Barely a second. But it knocked the wind from your lungs all the same. You ducked instinctively, your head bowing out of view behind the kitchen window. Staring down at your hands like they held something worth inspecting. Like you could pretend you hadn’t been caught in the act. Caught in him.

Feigning indifference. Feigning innocence.

But it was too late. The moment had already happened.

And it was enough to remind you of the thread between you. It had never truly broken.

You stayed hunched for a while, eyes on your fingers as if they might still tremble. You hated that he could still do that—look at you and stir something deep in your chest, something old and warm and traitorous.

Eventually, you forced yourself back into the rhythm. Coffee cooling beside your laptop. The dull hum of construction outside pulsing against the windows like a heartbeat.

Work. Just work. You had an article due, something about the resurgence of analog photography. But the words wouldn’t come easily today. Your fingers hovered over the keys, twitching. Restless. The sentence you typed three times already still sounded like someone else wrote it. It was so hard to write lately. 

With a heavy sigh, you pushed back from the desk and wandered into the kitchen, legs stiff from too many hours of sitting in your own silence. You reached for an orange—bright, firm, promising something clean and sharp to cut through the fog pressing against your skull.

Maybe the acid, the scent, the bite of citrus would jolt something loose. A sentence. A metaphor. A way to end the paragraph that had been rotting on your screen for the past hour.

You steadied the fruit on the cutting board and pressed the knife down—careless, distracted.

The blade slipped.

It was quick. A sudden, slicing kiss across your palm. You barely saw it happen before the sting bloomed, hot and biting. Then came the warmth—blood pooling fast, dark against the pale ridges of your skin. The orange rolled lazily toward the sink, abandoned.

“Shit—” you hissed, instinctively clenching your fist. Blood welled instantly, thick and crimson, dripping in slow, syrupy globs onto the tile.

You barely had time to grab a towel when the back door opened.

“Hey, I—” Tommy’s voice stopped short. The sound of his boots scuffed once, twice on the threshold, and then—

He was at your side.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Just crossed the room like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Like he hadn’t been gone for over a decade.

“Let me see,” he said, low. Not a demand. Just the kind of voice you don’t argue with.

You tried to turn your hand away from him, but he caught your wrist gently, his calloused fingers curling around yours like they remembered how.

“It’s nothing,” you murmured, not trusting your voice to be steady.

“You’re bleeding all over the damn place,” he muttered, brow furrowed, eyes flicking down to your palm. The concern in his expression was too raw, too real—something that didn’t belong to a man who had left you behind without a word.

He pressed the towel into your palm, firm but careful. “You got a first aid kit?”

“Yeah, it’s—” The words stalled in your throat as your gaze lifted, catching his.

He was close. Too close. Close enough that the air felt different between you—thick with heat, tension, history. You could smell him: sun-warmed sweat, the faint bite of cigarettes, and something faintly artificial… cologne?

You blinked. He wore cologne?

For work?

Your mouth went dry.

You swallowed hard. “It’s under the bed.”

He froze for just a beat, eyes lifting from your hand to meet yours.

And for the first time since construction began, you really looked at each other—no shielding, no avoidance, no polite glances and feigned distractions. It was raw, heavy. The kind of eye contact that rattled something deep in your ribs. That said everything neither of you had the guts to.

Grief. Anger. Ache. Love. All of it—pressed into a single, suffocating second.

Tommy’s breath hitched, but he covered it with a short nod. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges. “I’ll get it.”

He didn’t ask where. He didn’t need to.

Because he already knew. It was exactly where you left it. Years ago—tucked under your bed, in that old shoebox, next to the flashlight and extra batteries.

 Just in case.

Just in case he ever needed it.

He shifted his hand, covering yours atop the towel—a silent invitation to press down, to steady the pain yourself. Without another word, he headed upstairs—not rushing, but with a purpose that betrayed a memory sharp and certain. He knew exactly which door to find.

When he returned, he knelt before you as if by instinct—as if the years hadn’t dulled the unspoken understanding between you. The kitchen seemed to shrink around him, heat thickening the air. His presence was unbidden, yet it felt like something that belonged.

You might not pass out from blood loss, but the fact that he was kneeling in front of you. 

“You didn’t have to—” you began, voice rough and tight.

“Don’t,” he cut in, quiet but resolute. And you didn’t.

“It’s fine,” you murmured, trying to pull your hand back, your voice brittle beneath the heat rising in your cheeks. “I can handle it.”

Tommy didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Doesn’t look like it.”

His fingers were already unfurling gauze from the battered first aid kit, hands working with the same stubborn care he used to fix broken fences and busted drywall. 

Steady. Precise. Unapologetic.

“You’re bleeding through the damn towel,” he added, eyes flicking to the deep red soaking through the cloth like it had something to prove.

You weren’t. He was being kind of dramatic. 

And then—his hand wrapped around yours again. 

Warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

For just a breath, just a flicker of a moment—you let it happen. Let yourself imagine it was still then. It was still a hot July night, and he was slipping through your bedroom window like he belonged there. 

That he hadn’t taken every soft thing you gave him and vanished into silence.

He peeled the towel back slowly, and hissed through his teeth.

“You always did this,” he muttered under his breath, almost like he didn’t mean for it to slip out. “Couldn’t cook without hurting yourself. Still clumsy as hell.”

You blinked. The words cut deeper than the blade had.

“Don’t,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, trembling but sharp as glass. “Don’t talk like you know me.”

His jaw tightened. But he didn’t let go. Didn’t retreat. His thumb moved without thinking—just once—over the edge of your wrist, where your pulse thudded wild and panicked, like it knew better than to trust him again.

“I do know you,” he aid at last. His voice wasn’t soft, or angry.

Just… worn.

Tired.

“That’s the part I can’t seem to forget.”

The kitchen went quiet—stifling quiet. Only the hum of the fridge, and the sound of your own breath snagging on the edge of emotion.

And still—he held your hand like it was something worth protecting.

Like maybe, for once, he was the one who couldn’t let go.

As if summoned by the thrum of your fear, the front door creaked open. Joel stepped inside, a paper bag slung casually in one hand, eyes narrowing the second he caught sight of the kitchen.

“The hell’s goin’ on in here?”

“Nothing,” you said too fast—your breath hitching in the middle of the word. “I’m fine.”

You yanked your hand back like it had caught flame, heat rising in your cheeks. Hold the line.

Tommy didn’t flinch, but something passed over his face—quick, unreadable. He flexed his fingers once, then raised them slowly in a mock surrender. His tongue pressed into the corner of his cheek, but the tension in the air pulsed too loudly for jokes.

Joel clocked every bit of it. His brow lifted. 

Silent. Sharp. Suspicious.

You didn’t say anything else. Just turned and walked out. Quick, sharp steps—an escape. Because staying? Staying meant unraveling. Splintering the whole house down the middle.

Tommy stayed frozen, hands braced on the counter like he might push the whole kitchen away. His jaw ticked, tongue dragging over his back teeth. Joel didn’t say a word, but Tommy could feel his stare like a weight at the base of his neck.

Finally, he glanced up, exhaling through his nose.

“…Hell of a thing,” he muttered. “Cuts an orange and suddenly it’s a goddamn Greek tragedy.”

“Go get the goddamn cement bags…” Joel exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. 

It had been a month since construction began. 

A whole month of the Miller brothers tearing apart your backyard and piecing it back together—sweat-streaked days of lumber stacks, concrete dust, and the whine of power tools cutting through the silence you'd once cherished.

Expanding the house wasn’t easy. Adding a whole new wing wasn’t some HGTV weekend project—it was invasive, loud, exhausting. The kind of change that pressed into every corner of your life, even the ones you thought were safe. You were managing it all on your own, with your parents halfway across the world chasing their latest academic obsession, sending vague texts about ancient temples and unfiltered sunsets.

You were the one answering questions, signing off on adjustments, pretending like you had it all under control when inside, everything felt like it was slipping.

The house didn’t feel like yours anymore. Not with brothers tracking in dirt, rearranging your walls, changing the literal structure of the space you grew up in. And especially not with Tommy Miller’s ghost—his voice, his laugh, his scent—pressed into every hallway, lingering long after he'd gone for the day.

It felt like trying to build something new on top of bones you hadn’t buried properly.

Like every hammer swing was driving something deeper into your chest instead of the walls.

The heat pressed down like a second skin, sticky and relentless. 

One of those nights where even a cold shower leaves you clammy, soaked through with sweat you can’t wash away. 

You rose from your chair, limbs stiff and aching, the words on your screen blurring into nothing—meaningless. 

Your writing, your efforts, all of it felt hollow, like shouting into the void.

Fuck. Everything felt wrong.

Downstairs, the air still carried him—faint traces of beer, the sharp cotton scent of his shirt, and that subtle, feral tang of sweat that somehow smelled like home. Like, even when he was dirty, rough, and exhausted, he was cleaner in your mind than anyone else.

Your eyes flicked toward the back door, still ajar, a sliver of the night creeping inside. Tommy groaned low, shifting his workbag over one shoulder, muscles tensing with the familiar motion.

“You’re still here?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, hesitant and rough. Bare feet slid over the hardwood, soft as a ghost’s approach. “It’s like... ten at night. You do know we’re not paying overtime, right?”

He glanced up, surprise flickering across his face, but he didn’t let the bag slip from his grasp. Instead, he let out a tired chuckle, dry and short.

“Yeah, I figured.” His voice was rough around the edges, like gravel smoothed by time but still sharp enough to cut. “Work’s slow when it’s this hot. Thought I’d get a head start, try to wrap it up before it gets worse.”

You nodded, though your heart pinched with something you couldn’t name. The space between you stretched taut, loaded with unsaid things. “You—” Your voice caught, words tangled in the tension thickening the air. You stopped yourself, the weight of what you wanted to say crushing the breath from your lungs. “You didn’t have to come back.”

His eyes locked with yours—steady, unflinching, almost unapologetic.

“I came back for the job,” he said quietly, voice rough around the edges. “…Save Joel some time.”

The words settled between you like cold stones. You swallowed hard, but the heaviness wouldn’t lift. It anchored you where you stood.

“His kid is cute,” you said then, voice clipped, sharp enough to draw blood, “Sarah...” 

His niece.

It wasn’t a question or an invitation—it was a declaration, a wall built from years of silence.

Tommy’s gaze flickered for a moment—something like regret, or maybe pain—but he didn’t respond. The silence stretched. You hated how much you still wanted him to say something, anything.

Instead, he shifted his weight and muttered, “Yeah. She is.”

Your heart twisted—bitter, raw, aching in a way that felt both familiar and unfamiliar.

This awkwardness between you? It wasn’t who you were. Not the way you’d been before, back when laughter filled your rooms, when teasing and jokes were the language you both spoke effortlessly, when you prodded and pushed at each other with no walls between you.

When you were each other's first. 

“How’s...” You faltered, fingers drumming nervously on the granite countertop, “How’s your dad?”

He paused, tongue pressed to the side of his cheek like he was swallowing something hard.

“Dead.” The word came out clipped, a breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a growl, frustration threading through it.

Your mouth opened, his name on your tongue, but he cut you off with a sharp shake of his head.

“Don’t do this—"

"Not tonight.”

The silence after his words was thick, loaded. You wanted to push, to ask more, to unravel the years of silence, but something in his eyes warned you off—this wasn’t the time.

Was it ever going to be?

“You left.” The words hit the room like a jagged blade—plain, sharp, unforgiving. “You slid out of my bed. Climbed out my window. And you left.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stand taller, spine stiffening like steel under fire.

He tilted his head, that old, familiar frustration simmering just beneath the surface—like a storm you’d weathered before, one you knew too well. You've seen it before. Hell, you were there when it was made. 

Your name slipped from his lips, low and urgent, a warning:

“Please.”

But you didn’t back down. You couldn’t. Why would you?

“You left,” you spat, voice breaking but fierce, “And you never came back.”

He stepped back slowly. The weight of your words knocked the breath from his chest. The work bag slipped from his shoulder like a dying limb, thudding softly against the floor.

You didn’t let up.

“Do you feel guilty?” you asked, voice trembling with fury. “Do you even want to apologize?”

Silence. So you pressed harder, cutting deeper.

“Did you like it?” The words came like venom. “Wasting all those nights I let you sleep in my room. Pretend nothing was wrong. Hiding from your father... while I—while I held you together.”

His jaw tensed. Still nothing.

“Did you like it?” you hissed. “Fucking your best friend—”

That shattered him. He stepped forward so fast the air shifted, his voice raised above yours for the first time.

“Jesus—fuck…” he barked, dragging a palm down his face like it might erase the moment.

Anger. Sweat. Shame. It was all there, bubbling just beneath the surface.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. His presence filled the kitchen like smoke from a house fire—heavy, choking, impossible to ignore.

He looked at you like he didn’t know whether to argue or fall to his knees.

“I was seventeen,” he said, low, guttural. “And I was drowning.”

You blinked, your voice quieter now. But not kinder.

“And I was there. Every single night. And you still left me.”

He stepped back, that frustration blooming into something more brittle. Regret. Maybe even grief.

“You think I haven’t thought about it every goddamn day since?” he asked, his voice cracking at the edges. 

You laughed. It was short and bitter, “Not enough to come back. To apologize.” The silence that followed was loud enough to swallow you both whole.

He stared at you—really stared. But this look was different. It was weighted.

You could see it in the quiet collapse around his eyes. The carved-in creases along his brow. The lines hugging his mouth like they'd settled there after years of clenching. 

He looked tired. Weathered. Older.

Hell, so were you.

But the boy you once knew—the one who whispered secrets against your bedsheets and flinched at every car door slam—he was still in there. Flickering behind the amber-brown of his eyes, freckled skin flushed from heat and memory.

“What do you want me to say?” he finally rasped, voice rough as gravel. Another step forward. Closer.

“That I love you?”

Your breath caught.

“That I was a dumb fuckin’ kid who fell for his best friend?” His voice grew sharper. “That I hated my life? That you were the only good thing in it? That every day, I thought about leavin'—and I don’t mean runnin' off to the army.” He looked at you then, unflinching. 

“I mean, leaving. For good,"

"My dad ain't keep his gun in no damn safe.”

You flinched, a ragged inhale escaping before you could stop it. Your arms folded around yourself like armor.

But he didn’t stop. He took another step—careful, cautious, like you were something sacred he didn’t know how to hold.

“That seeing your face—sneakin’ into your window, smelling your shampoo on my fuckin’ hoodie—that was the only thing that made me feel alive?”

Your silence begged him not to go on.

But he did.

“That every hit I took, every time I bit my tongue bloody just to keep quiet... I did it so I could make it to the next night? Just so I could hear you laugh?”

“Just so I could feel like a fuckin’ person for once?”

He was close now. Close enough to break you.

And when you didn’t respond, when your body remained rigid and your lips sealed shut, he added—soft, but ruined. “You think I wanted to leave you?" 

“I didn’t leave you—I left me.”

The words landed like a hammer to the chest.

Blunt. Unforgiving. And, final.

You exhaled, a sound more sob than breath, and your knees nearly buckled with it. Tears tracked silently down your cheeks, warm and steady like they’d been waiting all this time for permission.

That wasn’t the answer you wanted. But it was the one you got.

And God, it gutted you. Because you'd spent years stitching his absence into abandonment. Into betrayal. You’d made it about the leaving—not the why. Not the rotting town that carved him hollow from the inside out. Not the bruises he kept quiet. Not the glassy stare he wore like armor. You never realized. And now it was too late to fix it. 

He stood there, just looking at you—eyes wide and wild with something close to regret. And then, his breath hitched. He lifted a hand—hesitating—like it wanted to reach for you, to cradle your cheek, wipe away the wreckage.

But it faltered. It dropped. He couldn’t even touch you.

“Fuck—” he rasped, stepping back like your pain had burned him, “I’m sorry. That was—” He choked on the next words, shaking his head like they wouldn’t come.

“Too much,” you whispered for him. Your voice thin. Broken.

His eyes flicked to yours again.

And for a second, there it was.

That same goddamn look. The one he gave you on that night—your window cracked open, the summer air thick, his hands trembling as he kissed you like it was the only thing that could save him. That night he left without a goodbye.

He still looked like that boy.

But this time, you weren’t seventeen. And this love wasn’t enough to rewrite history.

You wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand, jaw trembling. “You don’t get to do that. Drop some tragic confession and expect it to make the mess prettier. You left, Tommy. You chose to disappear.”

“I didn’t have a goddamn choice,” he said low.

“You did.” Your voice cracked on the last syllable. “You did, and you didn’t choose me.”

The silence between you turned heavy, thick with all the years lost to what-ifs and should’ve-beens.

Finally, you turned toward the stairs, wiping your face again. 

“Just—lock the back door when you’re done.”

You padded up the stairs, each step heavier than the last. Behind you, his voice barely filtered through—just the edge of a broken exhale, the muffled crack of “Fuck,” and the restless shuffle of feet with no direction, no place to go.

But you kept climbing.

Because what else could you do?

You reached the landing and closed your door like it could block out the past. Like it could erase the way his words were still ringing in your bones.

I didn’t leave you—I left me.

It echoed like a curse.

You stood there still. Shaking. Eyes darting across your room like they were searching for something to hold on to—something that hadn’t already been shattered.

But everything looked different now. Smaller. Older. The bed where you once whispered into the dark with him. The chair where he used to sit in silence, a quiet escape from the bruises on his ribs. The window he’d disappeared through.

You slumped to the floor.

What the fuck were you supposed to do with all of this?

With the memory of a boy who’d wanted to die—who’d only stayed alive because of you—and the boy who never told you. Never gave you the chance to carry any of it.

Cry?

God, yes. You cried.

It wasn’t graceful—wasn’t soft or cinematic. It tore out of you like a wound reopening under pressure. Sharp. Immediate. Ugly. Loud. The kind of crying that hollowed your ribs and made your molars pulse. You cried like your body thought grief was a fire to be purged, like noise could rewrite history if you screamed loud enough. If you hurt hard enough.

You didn't even remember falling to the ground. One moment you were upright, the next you were on your side—curled fetal on the cold floor like some ghosted version of yourself. Your fists clutched the hem of your t-shirt, pulling so hard you thought the fabric might tear, might snap you out of this. But it didn’t. Nothing did.

You couldn’t breathe around it—this grief, this truth that clawed at your lungs like it was trying to make space for itself. You wanted to crawl out of your skin. Tear the memories out of your skull. Rewind to the summer of ‘89 and beg him not to go.

And the worst part?

The cruelest part?

You still loved him.

You still fucking loved him.

Through all of it. Through the leaving. Through the years of nothing. Through the not-knowing and the silence and the way he looked at you now like he still held your name behind his teeth.

You loved him, and he had left anyway.

Not because he stopped. But because he didn’t know how to stay.

And that? That broke you worse than if he’d said he never loved you at all.

authors note: hi .. was this bad.. idk feedback is like so appreciated.. i am intimidated.

special thanks to nic and kaylee for beta reading.. ilyvm (@/joelmillers-wife , @/sassconvict)