#tcmb

Morning had come far too quickly. You awoke with the memory of that kiss still warm on your lips soft, hesitant, trembling. One breath you were lying in bed staring at the ceiling, and the next you were curled on your side, replaying every second of last night with a helpless, dizzy ache.

The way Thomas had leaned in, so slow, like the world might break if he moved too fast. The way his hands had stopped hovering in the air, unsure if he could touch you.

The little noise he made in his throat was fear or need or both.And then the kiss itself that was short, soft, meaningful, the kind that settles deep in your chest and won't leave.

But now, bathed in the pale morning light, the warmth twisted into something sharp. Because you didn’t know what it meant to him. Or if it terrified him. Or, in case last night had been a mistake in his eyes. Your stomach ached with the not-knowing.

Downstairs, your mother moved through the kitchen with tight, clipped motions, opening drawers a little too hard, shutting cabinets with the heavy-handedness of someone chewing on her own nerves.

You barely tasted your breakfast. Every time you swallowed, the knot in your throat got tighter. You left early, unable to sit still. The walk to school felt longer than usual, the road stretching endlessly, your mind restless and loud.

You kept looking for him.

But Thomas was nowhere to be found. Not behind the Miller fence where he sometimes idled away morning hours. Not along the church steps. He was not on the dusty track leading from his family home. With each open stretch of road, your heart went down that much lower.

By the time you were already at the school doors, the ache in your chest had grown into something heavy and trembling.

He was already in class. He sat with his head hunched so small that it almost hurt to look at him, while his hair fell forward in a dark curtain, hiding most of his face. His bandana was pulled slightly higher today, tucked carefully behind his ears-as if to disappear even more.

His shoulders tensed when you entered. He didn’t look up. Not even when you overtook him. Not even when you sat down. Your breath caught, shallow and tight, because the silence wasn't like yesterday's comfortable quiet-it felt cold, wrong, full of sharp edges.

Was he ashamed?

Of the kiss?

Of being seen?

Of wanting something he was convinced he couldn't have?

Your pencil remained unmoved for most of the lesson. Between classes, the hallway roared with life, lockers slamming, voices bouncing off the walls, the thick smell of chalk dust and cafeteria grease hanging in the air. You stepped carefully, trying not to get swallowed by the crowd.

Then you saw him.

Just ahead.

He moved slowly, hunched, as if not to take up space. Someone bumped him hard from behind. He didn't react. But you did, your whole body tensed as if the shove had landed on you instead. You quickened your steps.

His hand brushed yours when you passed through the narrow part of the hall. Barely more than a whisper of warmth, it was the faintest touch. But he flinched. Not away from you, you knew that deep down.He recoiled like a boy terrified of being witnessed wanting something.

You swallowed hard and whispered,

"Hi."

He froze. For one second, no more than one second, he raised his eyes to yours. Far enough to catch the confusion there, and something softer beneath it-something fragile and shaking and scared. Then he hastened away, his head bent down, his gait irregular.

You stood in the hallway, your heart breaking in small, quiet pieces. In a word: no. The air was too tight to breathe.

After school, you walked straight to the library, the only place where things ever made sense.

Mrs. Grace looked up at the creaking of the door, her eyes warm with a knowing look.

“He’s been waiting awhile,” she whispered, never cruel. Your pulse skittered. He was sitting at your table, back rigid, hands resting motionless on his notebook. He didn't look up when you approached. Didn't move, either. Just sat there like he was bracing for something.

You sat down beside him, careful not to scrape the chair. The silence was thick. Finally, in a voice barely above a breath, you asked.

“Did I… do something wrong last night?”

He tensed right up. Like the question hit him somewhere old and hurting. His hand trembled and his pencil began to quiver. He scribbled, then hesitated, scratched it out, wrote again. His breathing came without regularity, as though he could not quite find enough air.

When he finally pushed the notebook towards you, the words were small and uneven : I don't know what to do. Your heart cracked open. Because it wasn't rejection. It wasn’t regret. Fear. Confusion. A lifetime of not knowing what affection was.

“Thomas,” you whispered, your voice shaking, “the kiss was okay. I'm not mad at you. I swear." He didn't look at you, but his shoulders sagged an inch, just enough to let you catch the release of tension. He sat and wrote again, this time more slowly.

Was it good?

Your breath left your body all at once. “Yes,” you whispered, because anything louder would've broken the moment. “Yes. It was good.” His hand shook. His chest rose with a trembling inhalation, like he didn't believe you, not because he doubted you but because he doubted himself.

You reached out, your hand barely brushing his wrist. “You’re good,” you said softly. “You’re… good.” His head tilted just a little, as if he couldn't make out the words, but wanted to.

Then he wrote another note-smaller, hesitant: ARE YOU SAD? Your eyes pricked. “You noticed?” you whispered. He nodded once, stiff but certain. “I just…” You swallowed

“I thought you hated me today." His whole body jolted. His head shook violently no, no, no like the very idea caused him pain. He snatched the pencil. Scared you hate me. Your breath hitched. There was softness filling your chest, so suddenly that it almost knocked the air out of you.

You didn't touch him-not fully-but your knee brushed his under the table, and it lingered there. He didn't move away. He leaned just closer, his sleeve brushing yours, a warm presence at your side.

You walked home together.

Not talking.

Not touching.

But closer than you'd ever walked before. He would catch glances at you every so often, small and fast, like his eyes were darting away before you could catch him.

At one point, he lifted his hand; the fingers stretched toward yours……and then curled them back again, afraid. You feigned not to see, thus allowing him space for retrying another day.

The sun dipped low, and the sky glowed soft gold. The cicadas hummed. The world felt suspended-caught in that delicate place between fear and hope.

At your gate, you turned to him. He hesitated. Then tapped your wrist gently with two fingers, a silent call for your attention.

You almost imagined he would again lean in slow, tentative, as he always was around you. His fingers twitched as if wanting to reach out for you. But he didn't. Not yet. Instead, he stepped back, eyes still finding you in flickers, and walked away slowly, shoulders tight but turned back three times before he reached the end of the road.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t solved. But it was something. Something fragile and beautiful and real. Something worth following into tomorrow.

Chapter 18 — Borrowed Silence