ᴅɪᴠᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1 - ꜱᴏᴘʜɪᴀ ʟᴀꜰᴏʀᴛᴇᴢᴀ
ꜱᴏᴘʜɪᴀ ʟᴀꜰᴏʀᴛᴇᴢᴀ x ʟᴏꜱᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ- ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴀ ᴊᴜɴɪᴏʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʀᴇᴘᴜᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴍᴀʀᴛᴇꜱᴛ ʟᴏꜱᴇʀ ᴏɴ ᴄᴀᴍᴘᴜꜱ—ᴛʜᴇ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ᴇɴɢʟɪꜱʜ ᴋɪᴅ ᴡʜᴏ ᴛᴜᴛᴏʀꜱ ʜᴀʟꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜰꜰᴏʀᴅ ʟᴜɴᴄʜ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴜɪᴛᴀʀ ꜱᴛʀɪɴɢꜱ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ ʙᴏʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏᴄᴄᴇʀ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ, ᴛᴏᴍᴍʏ ʜᴀʟᴇ, ᴄᴏʀɴᴇʀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴇᴍᴇʀɢᴇɴᴄʏ ꜱᴛᴜᴅʏ ꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ… ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴅᴇꜱᴘᴇʀᴀᴛᴇ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʜɪᴍ. ᴡᴏʀꜱᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛʟʏ ᴀᴅᴏʀᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ. ꜱᴏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴇ ʙᴇɢꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ʜɪᴍ ᴡɪɴ ʜᴇʀ, ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴀʏ ʏᴇꜱ—ᴋɴᴏᴡɪɴɢ ꜰᴜʟʟ ᴡᴇʟʟ ɪᴛ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ᴅᴇꜱᴛʀᴏʏ ʏᴏᴜ.
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ/ᴛᴀɢꜱ- ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴍᴜᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴘɪɴɴɪɴɢ ʙᴜᴛ ʙᴏᴛʜ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴏʙʟɪᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ, ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀꜱ, ᴘᴏᴇᴍꜱ, ɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴀʀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ, ꜱᴘᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ
ᴀɴ* ɪᴍ ꜱᴏ ꜱᴏʀʀʏ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ꜱᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ, ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ʀᴇᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ, ꜱᴏ ɪᴛ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴇ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴄʜᴏᴘᴘʏ ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴀᴡᴀɪᴛᴇᴅ ꜰɪᴄ!!! ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ɪᴛ.😭
ᴀɴᴏɴ'ꜱ ɪᴅᴇᴀ: ᴄᴏʟʟᴇɢᴇ/ʜɪɢʜꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ: ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛ ᴀᴅᴍɪʀᴇʀ ( ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴘᴏᴇᴍꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟʟ) Part 2
"It's very beautiful over there." Those were the last words of the great Thomas Edison.
Most people indulge in chocolates or soft-serve sweets. I indulge in final breaths. Where others collect postcards or pressed flowers, I collect dying declarations.
Last words carry thousands, sometimes millions, of unspoken pieces.
They reveal who a person truly is when everything unnecessary falls away. It’s ironic, really. Knowing them now doesn’t benefit most people. They can’t save the speaker, can’t change anything.
At best, they’re just another fact to file away. A remembrance that summarizes a character.
But for me?
They meant everything. They encapsulate life. They leave me with conclusions where the world offered none.
Like the French poet François Rabelais, who died saying, "I go to seek a Great Perhaps."
A final whisper of pursuit, seeking the unknown, chasing a horizon I’ll never reach. It feels honest. It feels like life itself.
My obsession didn’t start from curiosity. It started the day my mother died. She left me with three words: “To be continued.” No context. No explanation. No chance to ask what she meant. Just that.
I was thirteen. And nothing prepares a thirteen-year-old for a mother stolen by an overdose accident. No one prepares for being handed grief without instructions.
Those words didn’t offer closure. They didn’t offer comfort. They didn’t teach lessons. They left gaps. Holes. A silence I’ve been trying to fill ever since. Why? Why those words? Why that ending?
Maybe, just maybe, if I could understand the space between life and death, the way a person completes themselves down to a single sentence,I could understand her too. I could finish the song, close the book.
Maybe decoding everyone else’s last words would help me translate my mother’s.
And until then, I’m left chasing my own “Great Perhaps.”
That said,I know damn well the “Great Perhaps” is not waiting for me at a house party filled with sweaty teenagers, sticky floors, and beer that tastes like regret. And it’s definitely not hiding behind the wheel while I DD my neighbor as they get shit-faced drunk for the third time this month.
I’ve known Ava Lee Garcia since I was five, long before either of us knew what heartbreak tasted like, before the stress, the growing up, before everything.
Back then it was simpler.
Just me, her, Theo, and a cheap guitar in my dad’s garage, fingers blistering as I tried to copy the songs on the radio.
Ava always picked things up faster, strumming confidently while I fumbled with the chords. She’d laugh, nudge me with her shoulder, and say:
“Try again, Y/N. You’ve got this.”
Sometimes I think my entire personality was built around trying again.
I look at her now, eyeliner smudged, rings stacked on every finger and I realize she hasn’t changed much. Not where it matters.
"You’ve got to live a little," Ava says, pressing a red cup into my hand. The liquid inside sloshes. It smells like battery acid and bad decisions.
I eye it. “What is this?”
She shrugs. “Something that’ll make you stop overthinking for 5 minutes.”
I snort, but I don’t drink it. I never drink it.
You—reading this now—might think it’s cruel of Ava to pass me a drink, especially knowing my mother overdosed on this and a few other things. But that’s the part you don’t know. That no one knows.
The whole town knows the truth. Everyone except my dad.
Being practically tied at the hip with Ava and Theo, I never found the courage to say the words my mother died. I never corrected anyone when they said she left. Never flinched when people whispered that she’d gotten a divorce, that she wanted more, that she skipped across town chasing a better life.
They believe she chose to disappear.
It’s an open secret, one everyone agrees not to touch, like a cracked floorboard you learn to step over without looking down. And maybe it’s cowardly, but I let it happen.
Because if she left, then there’s no memory of my mother in the bathroom burned into me. No coroner’s voice. No pills rattling in a bottle like a warning no one heard in time. If she left, then the absence hurts, but it doesn’t kill.
People don’t ask questions when someone leaves. They do when someone dies.
So I let Ava hand me drinks I won’t touch. Let Theo joke about how “responsible” I am. Let teachers nod sadly and tell me how strong I must be, growing up with a single dad.
I smile. I nod. I accept the version of my life they can handle. It’s better this way. At least, that’s what my dad and I tell ourselves.
I hand the red cup back. “Pass."
Ava rolls her eyes, but her smirk softens. “You’re no fun.”
She laughs, throwing an arm around my shoulders and pulling me deeper into the noisy, neon-washed chaos of the party. Her bracelets clatter against my collarbone, the sound bright and careless, everything I’m not.
Drowning in the crowd, I spot neighbor #2—Ava’s other half, the chaos to her curated recklessness.
Theo Lee Garcia.
In typical Theo fashion, he’s shirtless despite the cold, smoking two blunts like he’s been dared to by God Himself. He’s standing on a coffee table that definitely isn’t rated for this kind of abuse, shouting something.
He sees me and grins, the kind of grin that means trouble, the kind I’ve been cleaning up since sophomore year.
I swear I can already feel the impending headache forming behind my eyes.
Before he can drag me into whatever ritualistic stupidity he’s orchestrating, I pull myself back, letting the crowd swallow him whole.
Theo disappears into a wave of hands as his “bros” hoist him up like some shirtless, half-baked deity. He’s crowd surfing now, screaming something unintelligible and triumphant, both blunts still somehow intact.
I lean toward Ava and mutter, “I swear to God, this is why he was held back a year.”
She snorts, too loudly, because Ava has never understood the concept of subtlety. “Well, when I graduate this year,” she says, bumping my shoulder with hers, “you are officially in charge of keeping him in place.”
I drop my head back with a groan dramatic enough to rival Theo’s antics.
“Kill me now, please.”
Ava gives me a sympathetic pat on the back that is absolutely not sympathetic. It’s the kind of pat that says you’re screwed, bestie, while her eyes sparkle with mischief.
“Oh yeah? And what will your last words be?” she asks, way too cheerfully for someone watching her brother get waterboarded with cheap beer. She takes a slow sip of her mystery drink, leaning into me. “Come on, my little genius. Give me something poetic.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You want me to rehearse my dying declaration at a party?”
“Yes,” she says without a hint of irony. “I wanna know what you’d say if you dropped dead right now.”
I gesture vaguely toward the crowd where Theo is reenacting the fall of civilization. “Honestly? Probably something like: ‘Please tell Theo to stop.’”
Ava laughs loud, bright, the kind that makes people turn their heads.
She nudges me again. “No, seriously. What would it be?”
I look at her. Really look.
The constellation of freckles across her nose, the way she’s always half leaning on me like I’m the only stable object in a spinning world.
And for a second, the noise fades.
“I…”
I think deeply. If I died right now, here, like this—what would be left? What word could I leave behind that would sum me up, carve out some dignity, prove I was more than a background character in other people’s stories?
“I don’t know.”
The words feel small when I say them.
I let out a slow sigh. I can’t give her a real answer, not because I don’t care but because I haven’t lived long enough to earn one. I haven’t discovered myself enough to stand in front of the world and say, this is who I am and mean it.
I feel unfinished.
I feel like water, hiding behind the greats and their last words, letting borrowed wisdom guide the shape of my life. I can mold myself into any container handed to me.
But standing there, with Ava waiting for an answer I don’t have, a thought settles heavy in my chest:
If I can become anything, follow any words of life — am I actually living any of it?
Ava just give a light chuckle “Keep thinking, young buck, but I can tell you what theo’s last words will be; ‘Hold my blunt’”
I laugh, just imagining him saying that. “Oh, that reminds me of some good ones,” I start, already slipping into my default mode, facts, quotes, the safe little world in my head. “Like British MP Lady Astor, ‘Am I dying or is it my birthday?’ It was not her birthday. Or Michael Jackso—”
“Okay, okay, we get it,” Ava cuts in, laughing. “You’re a nerd on the weirdest topic.”
I laugh with her warm, genuine until something in the corner of my eye shifts. My smile drops instantly.
Theo has climbed on top of a table, arms spread wide like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk on Bad Decisions. And then—oh God—he hooks his fingers into the waistband of his pants.
My heart stops. “Oh shit. AVA.”
Ava turns, following my line of sight. “Oh my fucking god.”
She shoves through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, except instead of holiness, she’s powered entirely by rage and sibling shame.
“THEO!” she yells, her voice slicing through the music. “Fucking—get down!”
Theo, wobbling like a newborn deer, beams at her and shouts, “AVA”
I wince, already imagining police reports, ER visits, maybe an obituary if gravity decides to be especially unforgiving tonight.
Ava reaches the table just as Theo starts to shimmy. I right behind her, praying to whatever cosmic power handles idiots.
This is my life.
Was this the Great Perhaps I were chasing? The ‘to be continued’ that my mom was envisioning?
Because if it was, it looked a whole lot like chaos, liability forms, and a half-naked teenage boy screaming on top of furniture.
After the whole debacle finally calmed down—and after Theo stopped insisting he was “ascending to godhood”—I drove the twins home. I always do. I live next door, and somehow that has permanently assigned me the role of chauffeur, babysitter, and unofficial Garcia-wrangler.
The car ride is the quietest it’s been all day.
Theo is slumped across the backseat, head resting on Ava’s thigh, mouth slightly open as he snores like a dying lawnmower.
Ava absentmindedly runs her fingers through his hair, humming softly along to the song on the radio. It’s gentle, almost nostalgic, nothing like the disaster I just escaped.
“Thanks again,” Ava says suddenly, cutting through the silence.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I reply, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Streetlights glide across the windshield like passing ghosts.
Ava sighs, deep and frustrated. “I swear to God, we need to fix his drinking problem this year. If we don’t, he’s gonna drink himself to death.”
I let out a quiet chuckle, not because it’s funny, but because if I don’t laugh, I might start worrying on her behalf. “Yeah.”
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter.
I’ve never really understood why I ended up hanging around the twins. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t fate. It wasn’t some childhood prophecy.
It just… happened.
One day, two kids with matching last names appeared in the doorway like chaos and sunshine incarnate.
Ava with her loud laugh, paint-stained hands, and with her big toothy smile.
Theo with grass in his hair, a bruised knee, and enough reckless energy to power a small city.
And then there was me. Quiet. Awkward. Bookish. Obsessed with the weirdest things.
The twins were everything I wasn't.
And maybe that’s why they became my everything.
I ease the car into the driveway, headlights washing over the familiar garage door. The engine hums to a stop, but neither of them moves. Ava’s head is tilted against the window, mouth slightly open, eyeliner smudged from the chaos of the night. Theo is still sprawled across the backseat, one arm dangling off like a dead Victorian child in a painting.
For a moment, I just… sat there.
The calm after the storm. The kind of quiet I never get at parties, or in crowds, or even in my own head.
Ava’s face in sleep is softer, less cynical. Theo’s is peaceful, the kind of peaceful he never lets himself be when he’s awake.
I debate letting them stay like this. Just a few more seconds. A breath of stillness I didn’t know I needed.
Then I exhale and lean over, tapping Ava’s shoulder gently.
“We’re here.”
She grumbles something into the window, blinking awake like someone resurrecting from the dead.
I twist in my seat, bracing a hand on the headrest.
“Theodore Lee Garcia,” I say with the firm authority of a fed-up mother in a sitcom, “wake up.”
Theo snorts himself awake so violently I nearly jump.
Both of them stir at once, Ava rubbing her eyes, Theo blinking like a confused golden retriever.
Ava looks at me, messy-haired and half-asleep. “You drive like a grandpa,” she mutters.
“Oh well, you can tell me that when you finally pass your drivers test” I shoot back.
Theo lifts his head, squinting at the house. “Home?”
“Yes, genius,” Ava says, patting his cheek. “Home.”
The three of you sit there in the quiet driveway, the world finally still, the chaos of the night behind me.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The morning light leaks through my blinds in thin, golden lines, soft enough to pretend it’s gentle, bright enough to remind me it’s Monday.
I blink awake slowly, the remnants of last night clinging to me like fog. I breathe out. Another day.
I move through my morning routine on autopilot, shower, brush teeth, tie hair back, school uniform slightly crooked until I fix it in the mirror.
My room is quiet, the whole house usually is. In the kitchen, I crack eggs into a pan, toast bread, and slice fruit. Two plates: one for me, one for my dad.
He’s still asleep,he usually is at this hour after late shifts, so I leave his breakfast covered on the counter, with a little sticky note:
Eat before it gets cold. (...please.)
I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and step outside.
The morning air greets me with a cool kiss, and I inhale deeply. My bike sits by the gate, a little rusty, the paint chipped, but it works.
I hop on, push off the pavement, and let the downhill slope pull me forward.
I looked over the Garcia house to see the twins' window shut, they were probably sleeping, still hung over from yesterday.
-------
The auditorium is mostly empty, lit only by the stage lights that hum faintly overhead.
Sophia stands center stage, script in hand, voice soft but steady as she works through her lines for the spring musical, every gesture precise, every inflection practiced.
She’s always the last one to leave rehearsals, perfecting moments no one else even notices. Dani lounges across three seats in the front row, scrolling on her phone, glancing up every now and then with a small grin. “You sound good, Soph,” she calls, kicking her feet up. “You always sound good”
Sophia starts the monologue once more, but the sudden blare of the passing-period bell slices through the silence.
Both girls groan. Dani hops up, grabbing her bag, while Sophia hurriedly gathers her script, muttering, “We were just getting to the good part.”
They bolt out of the auditorium, sprinting down the hall as Daniela was pushing past the sea of freshman, just in time to crash straight into you rounding the corner on your way to class. Paper scatters, someone curses, and Sophia stumbles, practically landing against Daniela.
“Sorry! Sorry—” Sophia blurts, cheeks pink as she hands you a notebook that somehow ended up beneath her shoe.
“It’s fine,” you say, already backing up because your homeroom teacher will murder you if you’re late again.
Sophia watches you disappear down the hallway before Dani tugs her wrist. “Come on, Julliard. Homeroom.”
A minute later, the two of them slide into their seats, Dani slumping back, Sophia sitting a little too straight, tapping her script against her knee. She’s barely listening to morning announcements.
She’s still thinking about the way you apologized, soft, quick, familiar and how it felt hearing your voice up close again after all these years.
---
You might be thinking, I woke up and showed up on time.
Why in the good heavens am I late?
Well it's obviously not because I overslept, not because I forgot my bag, but because Luke and a couple of the football idiots cornered me by the vending machines demanding the answer sheets I promised them.
"answers, You got them" They whisper with a smirk, as if they are passing dope around.
I handed them over — for cash, obviously — and then immediately regretted it when Luke started bragging loudly about how “even the nerd has our backs.”
Great. Exactly the reputation I wanted.
So now I’m speed-walking down the hall, clutching my books, praying Mr Johnson had morning coffee and won’t take my head off for being late. I turn the corner— and crash straight into someone.
My notebook goes flying, her script slips from her hands, and the world tilts. I drop to a crouch to grab my things at the same time she does, and our fingers brush.
Just barely.
But it’s enough to short-circuit my entire brain.
Sophia.
Of course it’s Sophia.
Her eyes meet mine, warm brown, startled, familiar in the way childhood memories are familiar. I swear the hallway noise dips for half a second, like the universe hit pause just to mess with me.
“S-sorry,” she sputtered, handing me the notebook she stepped on.
I shake her head quickly, hair brushing my cheeks. “No, no — it’s fine.”
Sophia.
She really is a catch.
I’ve had a crush on her since freshman yearn since the first musical I ever watched. Macbeth. She played Lady Macbeth, all steel and fire and quiet madness, and something in me cracked open. I remember sitting there in the dark, hands clenched in my lap, realizing my life had shifted without asking my permission.
Suddenly, I wanted everything about her.
What she hated. What scared her. What she loved. What her favorite food was. If she had any secreted talents. How she likes her coffee
Who she was when no one was watching.
“I’ll finally get to see Marilyn.” The last words of Joe DiMaggio.
A man who loved Marilyn Monroe until the very end—through the breakup, through her marrying someone else, through years of distance and damage and silence. Love that didn’t expire just because it wasn’t returned the way he wanted.
That was the love I was chasing.
The kind that stays. The kind that doesn’t bargain or bend or ask to be chosen. Being so head over heels for someone that even the end of the world wouldn’t make you look away.
The kind of love that sounds romantic until you realize how lonely it is.
By the time I slide into homeroom — breathless, late, and earning the usual glare from my teacher.
But who cares? She's all I can think about. Sophia.
The girl who somehow gets prettier every year.
I stare at my desk, replaying that moment in the hallway again and again, fingers tingling like her touch left an imprint.
I’m so screwed.
—--
The rest of the day passes in a blur.
Not the dramatic kind, no swelling music, no catastrophic moments, just a quiet, hollow fog where time slips through my fingers without leaving a mark.
I answer questions automatically. Take notes I won’t remember writing. Nod at things people say without hearing them. My body goes through the motions while my mind stays somewhere else entirely. Math bleeds into history. History bleeds into science. Pages turn. Pens scratch. Bells ring.
I don’t notice any of it.
It’s like watching myself from underwater, everything muted and slow, my thoughts drifting in lazy circles that never quite land on anything solid.
I’m just… blank. Empty in a way that isn’t peaceful, just numb.
Maybe it's the silent realization that I can’t do anything about it. Liking a girl for 3 years straight with barely any contact. It's truly pathetic and I can’t fathom how to understand anything.
At some point, someone bumps my chair. I mutter an apology. I don't remember the meaning. At another point, the teacher says my name, and I respond before realizing I’ve been called on.
Then,
The lunch bell rings. Sharp. Sudden. Jarring.
Dismissed.
I blink at the clock, genuinely surprised to see how much time has passed. Half the day, gone. Just like that. I gather my things slowly, hands moving on muscle memory alone, backpack slung over my shoulder without thought.
Another day half lived.
Another stretch of time I won’t remember. And as I stand, the thought finally resurfaces, quiet but insistent, like a bruise I forgot was there.
Sophia.
Lunch means hallways. Hallways mean people. And people mean the possibility of running into her again.
My stomach twists.
I swallow, straighten my shoulders, and step into the current of bodies pouring out of the classroom—still numb, still drifting, still pretending I‘m not bracing myself for impact.
I go to lunch like I always do. Theo and Ava aren’t there, probably in an empty classroom - debriefing without me- or cutting class like they own the concept of time, so I drift through the cafeteria alone, trayless, unnoticed.
The room hums with noise: plastic chairs scraping, laughter bouncing off tile, the sharp smell of fries and something vaguely chemical pretending to be pizza.
I chose the corner table by the windows. I always do.
It’s far enough from the center that no one accidentally sits with me, close enough to the wall that I can disappear if I need to.I slide my backpack onto the seat beside me, pull out my laptop, and open the document that’s been living rent-free in my head for months.
My novel. The cursor blinks at me like it’s waiting for permission. I started typing anyway.
Words come easier than thoughts. Easier than feelings. Sentences stack quietly on the screen, measured, careful, controlled. Fiction is kinder than reality. In fiction, I decide when things end. I decide what words people get to leave behind.
I was halfway through a paragraph when something shifted. Not sound. Not movement.
Pressure.
I don’t even have to look up to know.
Across the cafeteria, Sophia’s table has gone quiet in that subtle, conspiratorial way, forks pausing mid-air, heads angling just enough to stare without staring. Daniela leans in, whispering something I can’t hear. Megan’s gaze flicks from Sophia to me, sharp and assessing, before she schools her face into something unreadable.
Sophia sits frozen for a second.
Then she looks.
Not casually. Not accidentally.
Directly at me.
My fingers are still on the keyboard. The cursor blinking. The distance between the tables was suddenly too small, too loud.
Her expression is soft, curious, maybe uncertain. There’s something else there too, something that twists in my chest. Recognition. Memory.
Like she’s piecing something together she didn’t know she was missing.
there, solid, unyielding. Untouchable.
The air thickens. It catches in my throat, makes breathing feel like a conscious effort. I don’t know what compels me to do it, but I offer a weak smile and lower my head, retreating into the safety of the screen.
Coward.
When I look back up, the moment is gone.
Out of nowhere Ava is walking toward Megan, Sophia’s attention drifting back to the group , laughter already spilling from her lips, her entire body language softening in a way it only ever does around her. Those damn lovebirds.
I exhale slowly, fingers hovering over the keys again.
The cursor still blinks.
Waiting for me to decide whether I’m going to write about the moment I just lived through, or pretend it never happened at all.
Megan and Ava have been dating since freshman year. A solid three years.
By now, you’d think I’d be part of their group, woven into the background of their inside jokes, their shared glances, their easy certainty. I’m always around, always welcome in theory.
But I never had the courage.
Courage to sit at their table without an excuse. Courage to speak without rehearsing first. Courage to exist without making myself small.
They make love look effortless. Public, unapologetic, real. And every time I see them together, I’m reminded of how badly I want that kind of belonging, and how convinced I am that it’s something meant for other people.
So I stay where I always am: close enough to watch, far enough to disappear.
Safe
----------------
“You’re really staring at her again?” Daniela laughs, lightly smacking Sophia’s arm.
“No,” Sophia laughs back, a little too quickly. “Stop, Dani. It’s not like that.”
She pauses anyway. Her eyes drift—not obvious, but intentional.
“Hey, Ava?”
Ava looks up, smiling, one arm still wrapped comfortably around Megan. “What’s up, Soph?”
Sophia hesitates, brows knitting together just slightly. “Why does she always sit alone?”
Ava blinks. “Huh?”
“You guys grew up together, right?” Sophia continues, voice gentle, sincere. “Do you ever invite her to sit with us?”
For a split second, Ava doesn’t answer.
Not because she doesn’t know—but because the truth is heavier than it looks.
Ava follows Sophia’s gaze across the room. You’re hunched over your laptop, shoulders curved inward, like you’re trying to fold yourself into the smallest possible shape. The glow of the screen reflects faintly in your glasses. Focused. Removed. Somewhere else entirely.
Ava exhales softly.
“I guess…” she says slowly, choosing her words, “she likes working on her novel. She never complains about it.”
Sophia hums, unconvinced.
“That’s not really an answer,” Daniela mutters, but Sophia ignores her.
Sophia’s eyes stay on you. Thoughtful. Observant. Like she’s watching a door that hasn’t been opened yet.
Megan squeezes Ava’s hand gently, a silent question.
Ava shrugs, quieter now. “She’s always been like that. Doesn’t like being the center of things.”
That part is true.
What Ava doesn’t say, what she can’t say, is that you’ve always waited to be invited. And everyone else assumed you preferred the quiet.
Manon’s head snaps up immediately, eyes lighting with interest. “Ohhh, I see you, Sophia,” she says, grin sharp and knowing. “Finally doing something about it? Or is this just another one of your silent yearning sessions?”
Sophia groans. “Shut up, Manon. It’s not like that.”
“Really?” Manon tilts her head, appraising, gaze flicking back to you across the room. “Because honestly—clean her up a little, ditch the sweats, maybe some eyeliner? I’d totally go for her.” She smiles wickedly.
Then, deliberately, Manon starts to stand.
Slow. Teasing. Like she’s doing it just to prove a point.
Sophia reacts instantly.
Her hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around Manon’s wrist, stopping her mid-rise.
“Don’t” Sophia says quietly. “Please”
Not sharp. Not loud.
But firm enough that Manon freezes.
Manon looks down at Sophia’s hand, then back up at her face. One eyebrow lifts. “Wow,” she says softly. “Okay. That’s new. So… you’re really not interested?”
Sophia’s jaw tightens. “Manon.”
There’s a warning in her voice now, quiet, but unmistakable.
Lara laughs under her breath. “You’re impossible.”
Manon raises her hands in mock surrender, still smirking. “What? I’m just saying. She’s got potential. Broody writer type. Very tragic.”
Sophia doesn’t laugh.
Her eyes stay fixed on you, on the way you’re hunched over your laptop, oblivious, fingers flying like you’re trying to outrun something. Her expression softens again, irritation melting into something else. Something private.
“It’s not that,” Sophia says finally. “She doesn’t need to change anything.”
That shuts Manon up.
Ava notices. She looks between Sophia and you, a subtle tension pulling at her mouth. Megan leans closer to Ava, murmuring something no one but Megan can hear.
Sophia exhales, quieter now, more to herself than anyone else. “I was just saying, she just looks… alone.”
And for the first time, instead of watching from a distance, Sophia shifts in her seat.
Like she’s getting ready to stand.
But she’s a coward too.
Always too scared to make a move.
Always waiting for you to do something. But you never do.
-Flashback 11 years ago-
The park was louder back then. Rusty swings screaming with every arc, the gravel biting into bare knees, the air thick with the smell of sunscreen and cut grass.
Sophia was smaller. So were you.
She was sitting on the edge of the sandbox, legs tucked in, hands wrapped around her favorite toy, a little plastic ballerina with a chipped pink tutu. She’d brought it everywhere that summer.
A shadow fell over her.
Three middle schoolers. Big voices. Bigger confidence.
“Hey, what’s that?” one of them said, already reaching.
“Give it back,” Sophia protested, standing too fast.
They laughed. One of them yanked the toy from her hands and tossed it between the others like a game.
“Stop,” she said again, voice shaking now.
You were a few feet away, building something disastrous out of sticks with Ava and Theo when you noticed. The way Sophia’s shoulders curled inward. The way her hands balled into fists like she was trying not to cry.
You didn’t think.
You never did back then.
You dropped the sticks and ran.
“Hey,” you said, planting yourself in front of them, voice high and wavering but loud enough. “Give it back.”
They looked at you. Then at each other.
And laughed.
One of them shoved you. Hard.
You hit the ground, palms scraping against the gravel. Pain flared sharp and sudden. Another shove to your shoulder for good measure.
“Mind your business, freak.”
They tossed the ballerina onto the sand and walked off, still laughing.
Your knees burned. Your hands stung. But you scrambled up anyway, grabbing the toy and brushing sand off it with shaking fingers.
Sophia ran to you.
You smiled passing her the toy “This is yours right? Here”
“You’re reckless,” she scolded immediately, grabbing your arms to inspect the damage. “And stupid. They were bigger than you.”
You looked at your scraped hands, then up at her.
And smiled. A wide, toothy grin, missing one of your front teeth.
Sophia blinked. “Why are you smiling? You got hurt.”
You shrugged like it didn’t matter. Like it never did.
“My mom always told me,” you said, a little breathless, “that you can smile through anything.”
Sophia stared at you.
At the blood on your palms. At the dirt on your knees. Anyway, you smiled.
Something in her chest shifted, quiet, permanent, undeniable.
That smile.
That's stupid confidence.
That was the moment.
The moment Sophia Laforteza fell for you.
“Thank you for helping,” She whispered.
-Flashback over-
School ends in a blur of lockers slamming and shoes squeaking against linoleum. By the time I make it to the tutor center, the sun is already slanting low through the windows, painting the tables gold and tired.
Tommy Hale is waiting for me, slouched in his chair, foot bouncing like he’s plugged into an outlet. Physics notebook open. Absolutely untouched. I always wonder why on god's green earth were you assigned to tutor this dumbass.
I sit across from him, setting my bag down. “Alright,” I say. “Vectors. What’s tripping you up?”
He opens his mouth. Then close it.
Then sighs. “Okay, don’t be mad.”
I already regret this. That face I just know he is about to say the dumbest shit ever.
“What?” I ask, my face deadpanned.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Can you… help me write something?”
I blink, confused. “For physics? English? What subject, Prince charming be specific here”
“I don’t like the way you say prince charming by the way He says
“Oh my god, just straight to the point, Dimples, I don’t have all day” I sighed so visibly loud.
I don’t mean to be obnoxious and everything but I just don’t have the energy to deal with his bull crap right now.
“Its…Its for a girl.”
I stare at him. What. The. Actually.
“No,” I said immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Come on,” he groans, leaning forward. “Please. You’re good with words.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” I say. “This is a tutor center, not Cyrano de Bergerac.”
He presses his palms together like he’s praying. “I really like her. And I don’t want to mess it up.”
I hesitate.
Not because I care, but because there’s something painfully earnest in his voice. Something un-Tommy-like. The guy who has everything handed to him. Dating girls left and right, is begging me to write a love letter for him.
Still, I shake my head. “Dude, the entire school likes you. Mr. Popular doesn’t need love letters to score a date.”
He scoffs. “That’s the thing. This girl’s different.”
I breath out sarcastically. “Yes, Yes, They’re always different.”
“No,” he insists. “I tried the normal way. Talking. Joking. Being… me.” He gestures vaguely at himself. “She’s not interested.”
That gives me pause. I can only think of a few people that are, One: Single, Two: Into Guys, and Three: Not interested in Tommy Hale, The soccer captain, the golden, oh I can gag thinking about all the nicknames stuck onto him.
I laugh it off anyway. “Then maybe take the hint?”
He shakes his head. “I heard from a friend that she likes romantic gestures. Like, big ones.”
My stomach drops. Now I can think of one person.
Slow. Heavy.
“Who?” I ask, already knowing, I shouldn’t.
He hesitates. Just long enough.
“Sophia Laforteza.”
The name lands like a bruise.
“Oh,” I say, forcing a laugh that sounds wrong even to my own ears. “Yeah. Of course.”
Of course she’d like that.
Of course he’d be the one writing to her.
I look down at the blank page between me, the cursor blinking patiently, mockingly.
My head fills with everything and nothing at once. I know the math of it, I know I don’t have a chance. I know this isn’t some hidden path where things turn out differently. This is real life, and in real life, Sophia Laforteza doesn’t end up with girls like me.
But still.
Somewhere deep, stupid, and quiet, I’d always wanted to know her better. Not the version everyone sees. Just her. I’d carried the what-ifs around like contraband, never taking them out, never daring to look too closely.
And now here they were, dissolving.
Because she would like him. Because he makes sense.
…maybe this is…this is the closet I get. Maybe this is the loophole.
I swallow, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The screen is still blank, a white space waiting to be filled with something honest, something that isn’t mine to give.
“What do you even want to say to her?” I ask quietly.
Tommy brightens immediately, relief flooding his face. “I don’t know. That’s why I need you. You always know how to say things.”
I almost laughed at that. Almost.
“Why do you like her?” I ask instead, stalling. “Like—actually like.”
He shrugs, scratching his head. “She’s Pretty. And… different. She doesn’t care that I’m captain or whatever. She’s just—cool.”
That’s it. That’s all he’s got. My chest tightens, something sharp and ugly twisting under my ribs. Of course. Of course that’s enough for him. Of course that’s all it takes to want someone like her.
I nod anyway. “Okay.”
I start typing.
The words come too easily. They always do. Soft sentences. Careful ones. The kind that linger. The kind that sounds like someone who notices things—like the way she listens when people talk, or how she never underestimates kindness, or how the world seems steadier when she smiles.
I don’t write it for Tommy. I write it as if I’m writing it to her. Every sentence is something I’ve already said in my head a thousand times. Every line feels like a confession I’m not brave enough to make out loud.
Tommy leans over my shoulder, grinning. “Damn,” he says. “That’s… really good.”
Yeah, I think. I know.
“What do you think?” he asks. “Is it too much?”
I shake my head. “No. She’ll like it.”
Because it’s everything I know she would.
Because it’s everything I wish I could be.
I hit save and slid the laptop toward him, my hands suddenly cold.
“Just… make sure you mean it,” I say.
He nods, all sincerity. “I do.”
And I believe him.
That’s the worst part.
Because we live in different worlds, him, with his easy smiles and endless chances, and me, hiding behind words that were never meant to be borrowed.
And somehow, even when I’m the one writing the love story,
I still don’t get to be in it, Cause I wrote myself out of it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The next day, the hallway feels longer than usual.
Lockers slam, voices overlap, the smell of cheap coffee and perfume hangs in the air but I notice none of it. My eyes are fixed down the corridor, heart lodged somewhere in my throat.
And then I see her. Beautiful as always. But my mind is still replaying yesterday’s events.
Sophia stands by her locker, sunlight from the high windows catching in her hair, making her look unreal in that unfair, effortless way she always does. Daniela is beside her, leaning against the lockers like she owns the place. Manon and Lara hover nearby, phones half-forgotten in their hands.
Tommy approaches from the opposite end.
I slow without realizing it, feet dragging as if my body is trying to give my mind time to catch up.
I shouldn’t watch but I do anyway.
Tommy clears his throat. I can almost hear him from here. He says her name. Sophia looks up, surprised but polite, that careful smile already in place.
He hands her the letter.
Just like that.
A folded piece of paper. My words, My handwriting. My thoughts, My love used to break my heart.
Sophia blinks, confused for half a second, then takes it. “Oh—um. Thank you.”
Tommy grins, rubs the back of his neck, mumbles something I can’t hear. Then he leaves, throwing me a quick look as he passes, excited, hopeful.
I stopped walking altogether.
Sophia opens the letter.
I see it happen in real time: the way her posture changes, the way her eyes slow as they move across the page. The hallway noise fades around her, like she’s stepped into a different world.
Daniela leans in. “What is it?”
Sophia doesn’t answer right away. She keeps reading.
Manon peers over her shoulder. “Is that—wait, is that from Tommy?”
Sophia nods absently, still focused.
Lara laughs softly. “I told you he had it in him.”
Something sharp twists in my chest.
Sophia finally looks up, brows slightly drawn together—not displeased. Thoughtful. Almost… moved.
“This is…” she trails off.
Daniela beams. “Good, right? I knew he’d surprise you.”
Sophia folds the letter carefully, fingers lingering on the crease. “It’s really beautiful,” she
says slowly. “Just… unexpected.”
Manon tilts her head. “Unexpected how?”
Sophia hesitates. “It feels… personal. I didn't know he could write like this...it's really...deep.”
My breath catches.
Daniela squeals quietly. “Oh my god. That’s so romantic.”
Lara nudges Sophia. “You should give him a chance. At least one date.”
Sophia glances down at the letter again. For a moment, her eyes flicker, uncertain, searching, like she’s trying to place a feeling she doesn’t have a name for.
Then she nods. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Maybe I should.”
My chest tightens.
The bell rings, sharp and unforgiving, snapping the hallway back into motion. Sophia and her friends move off together, still talking, still smiling.
She tucks the letter into her bag like it’s something precious.
I stand there a moment longer than I should. Watching the girl I love fall for my words, just not my name.
The bell finishes ringing, and I’m still standing there when a hand slams into my shoulder.
Hard.
“What the hell—”
I barely have time to turn before someone shoves me again, this time steering, corralling. Fingers dig into the fabric of my hoodie. I stumble, shoes squeaking uselessly against the floor.
“Hey—Hey—stop—”
A door swings open. I’m pushed inside. The room smells like dust and old metal, an unused equipment storage room, lights flickering weakly overhead. The door slams shut behind me with a sound that echoes too loud in the small space.
Luke. James. Cam. Football jackets. Smug faces. The kind of boys who walk the halls like they own them.
Luke crosses his arms, jaw tight. “You think you’re funny?”
My heart pounds, but my voice stays flat. Quiet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
James laughs, sharp and humorless. “Physics. Yesterday. Answer sheet.”
Cam steps closer, invading my space. I can smell his cologne, cheap, aggressive. “You gave us the wrong one.”
I swallow. Of course it was them. I’d mixed the sheets on purpose, just a few wrong answers slipped in. Insurance. I’d always done that. I never expected these dumbass to get A+—
Luke shoves me back into a shelf. Metal rattles. My shoulder burns. “You cost us a test,” he snaps. “Coach’s pissed.”
“I didn’t force you to cheat,” I say before I can stop myself. That’s the wrong thing to say.
Cam scoffs. “Listen to the nerd.”
James grabs my backpack and dumps it onto the floor. Papers scatter. A notebook slides open, pages filled with cramped handwriting, lyrics, half-finished poems.
Luke kicks it aside. “You think you’re better than us?”
"I'm just smart enough to know that you aren't getting above a C-"
Another shove. I stumble, catch myself on the wall, chest tight, breath shallow. I don’t fight back. I never do. Fighting just makes it worse.
A punch lands, more force than precision, knocking the air out of me. My vision spots.
“Don’t fuck this up” James says. Landing another punch “It was that simple"
The door opens again, suddenly.
“Hey!” A voice cuts through the room. Tommy.
Luke turns. “Mind your business, Hale.”
Tommy’s face is red, furious in a way I rarely see. He steps between me and them without hesitation. “Get out.”
Cam laughs. “Really, Theo, Her?”
Tommy doesn’t answer. He just stands there, solid, unyielding. Untouchable.
There’s a tense beat. Then Luke scoffs. “Whatever. Not worth it.”
They shove past Tommy on the way out, shoulders colliding on purpose. The door slams again, leaving silence behind.
My knees feel weak. I slid down the wall, sitting on the cold floor, hands shaking despite myself.
Tommy turns to me, anger melting into something softer. “Are you okay?”
I nod automatically. Lie automatically. “Yeah.”
I look away, staring at the scattered pages on the floor. My words. My work. Stepped on.
“I don’t need you saving me,” I say quietly. “It just makes it worse.”
Tommy opens his mouth, then closes it. He doesn’t understand, but he nods anyway.
As I gather my things, my hands tremble, adrenaline still buzzing under my skin. And all I can think is this, I gave him the words that made her heart flutter. And this is the price I pay for staying invisible.
By the time lunch rolls around, the bruise on my shoulder has settled into a dull, persistent ache—no longer sharp, just constant, like something humming under my skin.
I duck into the bathroom before the cafeteria, lock myself in front of the mirror, and start cleaning myself up.
The fluorescent lights are unforgiving. They catch everything—the split skin on my lip, the purpling bruise blooming along my jaw. I dab at the dried blood with wet paper towels, hissing when it stings, shoulders tensing as I lean closer to the sink.
Focus. Just fix it. Get through the day.
“You good there?”
The voice comes from right beside me.
I jolt, eyes snapping up. I hadn’t even noticed someone else was there, too busy reconstructing my face.
Sophia stands at the sink next to mine, smiling softly at her reflection as she adjusts a strand of hair, like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Oh—yeah,” I say quickly, giving her a smile that immediately pulls at the bruise. “I’m great.”
Sophia’s smile curves, amused but concerned. “Are you really smiling with a bruised face?”
I shrug, embarrassed. “You can smile through anything.”
Her expression stills.
Just for a second.
Then she smiles again, softer this time, like she’s remembering something. “Yeah,” she says quietly.
I look over at her with my bruised face “Hey—can you pass me a tissue?” Pointing at the dispenser.
She shakes her head immediately. “No, not those. Wait.”
She opens her purse, rifling through it before pulling out a small packet of pocket tissues. “Here,” she says, handing it to me like it’s a secret.
Of course she carries her own.
She steps closer, eyes narrowing slightly as she looks at my face. Too close. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo, something clean and faintly sweet. She slowly gets ready to leave, giving me a small smile “Good luck there, Rocky”
A voice in my head screams. Say something. Don’t let her walk away. This might be the last time I ever get to talk to her. Just anything.
I take a breath. “Um—do you… have any makeup?”
She turns and tilts her head. “Makeup?”
“Yeah,” I say, gesturing vaguely at my face. “Just—so it’s less… this.”
Understanding clicks instantly.
“Oh,” she smiles. “Yeah. I’ve got you.”
My heart stutters.
“Sit,” she says, nodding toward the counter. “It’ll be easier.”
I hop up, legs dangling slightly, trying very hard not to look like I might pass out. She steps between me and the sink, setting her bag down, completely unfazed by how close she is now.
She works carefully, methodically, dabbing concealer, blending gently, pausing every time I flinch.
“Does that hurt?” she asks softly.
“Only a little,” I lied.
Her fingers are warm. Steady. She concentrates like this matters, like I matter.
“There,” she says after a moment, leaning back to examine her work. “Much better.”
I look in the mirror.
The bruises are still there, but softened, hidden just enough. When I look back at her, she’s already smiling, proud in a quiet way.
“Thank you,” I say, voice barely above a breath.
She shrugs lightly. “Anytime.”
And for a moment, just one fragile, stolen moment, the world feels smaller.
Quieter. Like maybe this is something worth holding onto.
------------
After school, the weight in my chest eases just a little. Smiling thinking about today. Just that moment replaying in my mind.
I walked toward the parking lot with Ava and Theo, backpacks slung low, the sky washed in late-afternoon gold. Theo’s rambling about some obscure chord progression he swears changed his life, while Ava hums under her breath, fingers tapping an invisible fretboard against her thigh.
“I’m telling you,” Theo says, animated, “if you layer it under the bridge, it’ll sound insane.”
I nod, half-listening. “I found something similar in the music room. Old sheet music. The lyrics were trash, but the melody—”
“You’re both wrong,” Ava cuts in, smirking. “It needs space. Let it breathe.”
I was about to argue when—“YO!”
I barely have time to react before a blur of energy barrels toward me. Tommy. He skids to a stop, breathless, phone clutched in his hand like it’s holy scripture. His face is split by the widest grin I’ve ever seen.
“She texted me,” he blurted out.
Sophia.
He shoves the phone in my face. A single message glows on the screen.
Hey! I read your letter. It was really sweet. I didn’t expect it—but thank you :)
Tommy looks like he might levitate. “She liked it. She actually liked it.”
Theo’s smile disappears.
“Hey Tommy,” he says flatly, already stepping back. “I—I forgot something. I’ll catch you guys later.”
“Oh. hey” Tommy smiles but Theo was already gone, before he could really respond.
I blink, confused, watching him retreat. That’s weird. Theo never just… leaves.
Ava notices too. Her eyes flick to Theo’s back, then to me. She hesitates, then clears her throat.
“I’ll go make sure he doesn’t trip into traffic,” she says lightly. “Text me later, yeah?”
She squeezes my arm before walking off, deliberately slow, giving my space I didn’t ask for.
It’s just me and Tommy now. He looks at me, still grinning. “Okay. What should I say back?”
I stare at the phone like it’s a live wire. “Tommy,” I say carefully, “I did my part. The letter was the help. This is… you.”
He winces. “I know, I know, but—” He drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t wanna mess it up.”
I exhale. Of course he doesn’t.
“Just be yourself,” I offer weakly.
He makes a face. “That’s what I’m scared of.”
I close my eyes for half a second. Losing my power and mind. Being delusional over a 5 minute interaction but she is head over heels for him.
“Please,” he says. “Just help me respond. One text. That’s it. I swear.”
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
But he’s looking at me like I’ll always save him. Like I own him this. And maybe Sophia deserves this.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Give me the phone.”
Tommy lights up immediately, handing it over.
My thumbs move fast, muscle memory takes over before my heart can catch up. I keep it short. Gentle.
I’m really glad you read it. If you’d like, maybe we could go out some time, no pressure. Coffee this Friday?
I hand the phone back, chest tight. “Send that.”
He reads it once. Twice.
“That’s perfect,” he says, “Thanks”
Before I can stop him, he hits send. Three dots appear almost instantly.
My breath catches.
Then:
I’d like that. Friday sounds good :)
Tommy lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a shout, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me like he’s just won the lottery. “Shit, man. You’re a genius.”
I force a smile, because that’s what I do. Because it’s easier than explaining the knot in my chest, easier than saying this isn’t really mine to celebrate.
But his hands tighten. Right on the bruise. Pain flares white-hot.
“Ah—let go—ouch,”I gasp, twisting away. “You got me.”
Tommy freezes instantly. “Oh shit—my bad.” He releases me like I’ve burned him, eyes dropping to my face, concern flashing through the grin. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, rolling my shoulder, even though it still throbs. “I’m fine.”
“Anyways, Friday,” he says, still buzzing. “I’m taking Sophia Laforteza on a date.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Friday.
As he walks backward toward his car, still staring at his phone, I stand there rooted to the pavement, the echo of his happiness ringing in my ears.
I did exactly what he asked.
I get into my car and turn the engine on. The radio crackles to life, some half-familiar indie song I’ve probably overanalyzed in an English essay at some point. I don’t change it. I don’t really hear it either. It just exists in the background, a ghost of sound.
I sat there. Hands on the steering wheel. Knuckles pale. Chest tight, like something heavy is pressing down from the inside.
Friday. The word loops in my head like a bad chorus. Friday. Friday. Friday.
I pull out of the parking lot, tires humming against the asphalt, the school shrinking in the rearview mirror. Lockers, hallways, Sophia’s smile in the bathroom mirror, it all collapses into a blur. Houses streak past. Stop signs. Bare trees clawing at the sky. Everything feels slightly tilted, like I’m watching my life through scratched glass.
I grab my phone. Theo doesn’t just leave. Not like that. I called him once.
Straight to voicemail. Again. Nothing.
My jaw clenches. I switch lanes too fast, earning a honk. I barely registered. I tried Ava. It rings this time.
“Hey,” she answers. Her voice is light—but wrong. Too light. Like she’s propping it up with both hands.
“Where are you?” I ask, already turning the wheel harder than necessary.
There’s a pause. Wind rushes through the speaker. I hear the faint creak of metal—chains.
“…We’re at the park,” she says finally. “Across from school.”
My grip tightens. “Stay there.”
“Ca—”
I hang up before she can finish.
The park comes into view less than a minute later. Rusted swings, faded slides, the same chipped bench we’ve sat on a hundred times since we were kids. I pull up too fast, brakes screeching softly as I park crookedly along the curb.
They’re exactly where she said they’d be.
Theo is slouched on the swing, feet dragging lazy lines into the dirt, head tipped back like he’s staring at the sky, or avoiding everything else. Ava stands nearby, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one hip, jaw set tight.
I cut the engine and stepped out.
Neither of them looks surprised to see me.
“Get in,” I say flatly.
Theo doesn’t move.
Ava sighs. “Hey. Don’t start.”
“Please,” I beg. “I’m leaving. And I need you guys to get in.”
Theo finally looks at me then. His eyes are glassy, not drunk, not high. Just… distant. Like he’s miles away.
“You good?” I ask, softer now despite myself.
He scoffs, kicking at the ground. “Yeah. I’m great. Just watching the world burn.”
“Don’t do that,” Ava says sharply. “Don’t be dramatic.”
Theo laughs, short and humorless. “Oh, so when she spirals it’s poetic, but when I do it—”
“Get in the car,” I repeat, voice low. Not angry. Controlled. Dangerous in the way that comes from holding too much in.
Theo studies me for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he pushes himself off the swing and walks toward the car. Ava follows, shooting me a look that says later.
We pile in.
No music. No talking.
The car pulls away from the park, the swings creaking behind us in the wind, still moving long after no one’s there to push them.
And I don’t know why, but I get the sinking feeling that this, this quiet, this tension, this almost-something is the beginning of everything unraveling.
No one speaks.
The park disappears in the rearview mirror, the swings still swaying long after we’ve left, empty, restless, like they don’t know when to stop.
After a minute, I glance at Ava. “What was that?”
She keeps her eyes on the window. “Nothing.”
I scoff softly. “It wasn’t nothing.”
Theo shifts in the backseat, leather creaking under him. “Drop it.”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. “I’m not trying to start something. I just—” I exhale. “You walked away. That’s not like you.”
Theo lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Funny. Seems like people are doing a lot of things they don’t usually do lately.”
Ava turns sharply. “Theo.”
I swallow. The road stretches out in front of us, familiar cracks in the pavement passing by like old scars. “Is this about Tommy?”
Silence.
The kind that presses in on your ears.
Theo doesn’t answer.
Which is answer enough.
I keep my eyes forward. “I was helping him,” I say quietly. “That’s it.”
“Yeah,” Theo says. Flat. Sharp. “Helping him get the girl you’ve been in love with since forever.”
Ava inhales sharply. “Theo—”
“No,” he cuts in. “Someone had to say it.”
My chest tightens, air suddenly hard to come by. I don’t argue. I don’t defend myself. There’s no point. The truth sits heavy between us, undeniable.
Ava leans her head against the window, voice softer now. Tired. “You’re allowed to want things too, you know.” A beat. “I’m talking to the both of you.”
The words land harder than the punches from earlier. Harder than the bruise blooming under my jacket.
I turn onto our street, the sun dipping low behind the houses, casting long shadows across the road. Everything looks the same as it always has, mailboxes, driveways, trees we grew up under.
The car keeps moving.
By the time we’re back at the twin’s house, the air feels indifferent, the truth layered within it.
Ava's room has warm fairy lights pinned crookedly along the walls, some sagging, some barely holding on. Posters curl at the corners. Guitars lean against every available surface, abandoned mid-thought, mid-feeling.
This is where I breathe easier.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, bass resting against my knee. Changing into something more comfortable, more casual.
Ava perches on her bed with her guitar, curls tucked behind her ear, already half lost in the rhythm. Theo lounges near the window, hoodie half-zipped, foot tapping an uneven beat against the wall.
“Okay,” Ava says, strumming lightly. “From the top. The bridge needs more space.”
I nod and play.
The notes come out low and steady, grounding in the way only muscle memory can be. My fingers move without asking permission. For a few minutes, everything clicks. The bruise fades. The tension loosens. Music gives me that mercy, it lets me exist without explaining myself.
Theo hums along at first.
Then I hear it.
The soft, unmistakable flick of a lighter.
I look up just in time to see Theo lifting a blunt to his lips.
Ava reacts instantly.
“Oh, hell no.”
She lunges forward and smacks it straight out of his hand. It hits the floor, the ember dying with a hiss.
“Are you serious?” she snaps. “Inside my room?”
Theo groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Jesus, Ava. I’m stressed.”
“So are we,” she fires back. “You don’t see us hotboxing my childhood bedroom.”
I stay quiet, bass strings still vibrating faintly beneath my fingers, the note dying too slowly.
Theo slumps back against the wall, jaw clenched. “Whatever.”
A few minutes pass. We try to start again, but the song never quite finds its footing. Theo’s eyes are glassy, hinting something more.
Then he laughs. Soft. Bitter. “You know what I don’t get?”
Ava freezes mid-chord. “Theo.”
He ignores her, eyes locking onto me. “You always hated Tommy. Like—really hated him.”
I stiffen. “That’s not true.”
He scoffs. “You used to talk shit all the time. About how easy his life is. About how people just hand him things.”
“That was—” I stop myself. Swallow. “That was before.”
“Before what?” he pressed. “Before you started writing his love letters? Before he started talking to Sophia?”
Ava sets her guitar down hard. “Okay. Stop.”
“No,” Theo says, sitting up straighter now, sharp despite the haze. “I’m genuinely asking. When did you two become buddy-buddy?”
The bass feels heavier in my hands. “We’ve always been friends.”
“Bullshit,” Theo snaps. “You tolerated him. Now suddenly you’re bending over backward to help him get Sophia?”
Her name tightens something painful in my chest.
Ava looks between us, torn. “Theo, you’re not being fair.”
“I am,” he insists. “Because it’s always the same with them.” He gestures vaguely, like he means more than just Tommy. “They don’t have to try. And you—” His eyes burn into me. “You always let them get away with it”
Silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable.
I stare down at my bass, thumb tracing the worn edge of the pickguard, grounding myself.
“I didn’t do it for him,” I say quietly. The words sit there, fragile. “I did it because I thought… maybe this was the closest I’d ever get.”
“You’re a coward Y/N Y/LN” Theo said coldly
“I know” I whispered back.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A few months pass. Slowly. Quietly. Inevitably. By winter, it’s official, the it couple of the school.
Sophia Laforteza and Tommy Hale.
Their names get said together like a headline, like they were always meant to be paired. People smile when they pass in the halls. Teachers tease them. Friends nudge and whisper. It’s easy, effortless, and public.
And me?
I don’t do anything dramatic. I don’t cry in bathrooms or tear pages out of notebooks. I don’t confess. I don’t explode. I just… break. Quietly. On the inside.
So I do what I’ve always done.
I keep writing.
My novel gets thicker, heavier. Chapters stack up like proof that I still exist somewhere. Every feeling I can’t say out loud gets buried in metaphors and half-finished sentences, love, resentment, longing, all of it filtered into words that aren’t mine anymore.
Life keeps moving.
And somehow, because life has a cruel sense of humor, I start seeing Sophia more than ever.
Tommy likes me. Genuinely. He calls me one of his closest friends now, insists I sit with them at lunch, walk with them between classes, and hang out after school. He wants his worlds to overlap, his friends, his girlfriend, his life—everything neat and whole.
So I let it happen.
I sit at their table. I listen to Tommy talk about practice, about games, about Sophia like she’s something precious he still can’t believe he gets to hold. I laugh when I’m supposed to. I nod. I give advice when he asks.
Sophia is kind. She always has been.
She asks about my writing. Compliments my bass playing when she comes to watch Ava and me rehearse. Sometimes she looks at me a second too long, like she’s trying to remember something she’s misplaced.
And every time, I look away. Because I’m careful now.
But things with Theo?
They don’t get better. They get worse.
He stops waiting for me after class. Stops showing up to rehearsals on time. When he does show, he’s sharper, either too quiet or too loud in all the wrong ways. The jokes turn mean. The silences stretch.
He hates being around Tommy. Hates the way I orbit that world now. Hates the way I pretend everything’s fine.
We start fighting over nothing, missed practices, forgotten rides, throwaway comments that cut deeper than they should. Ava tries to mediate, tries to hold us together, but even she’s starting to look tired.
And I know. I know this isn’t just about Tommy.
It’s about everything I won’t say. Everything I keep swallowing. Everything that keeps changing while Theo stands still, watching it happen.
I’m losing him.
Slowly. Quietly.
The same way I lost her.
–----
Sophia has rehearsals after school for the spring play, and it's been a recent habit to hang around with Tommy while we wait for rehearsals to end. The routine was the same, His soccer practice ended and we hung on the bleachers waiting for Sophia rehearsals to end.
Sitting on the bleachers, the field emptying out around us, then his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, groans, then answers.
“Yeah, Coach… yeah, I know… I’m on my way.”
He hangs up and looks at me apologetically. “Captain stuff. Last minute.”
I nod, already used to this. “Go.”
He hesitates, then glances toward the theater building. “Hey, Sophia’s rehearsal ends in like fifteen. Can you wait for her? Tell her I’m sorry I bailed.”
My stomach tightens. “Yeah. Sure.”
“And—” he adds quickly, “could you drive her home? I’ll make it up to her later, promise.”
I should say no.
I don’t.
“Okay,” I say.
Tommy claps my shoulder lightly, grateful, and jogs off toward the locker rooms.
So I wait. Walking to the parking lot, barely any cars in sight.
I lean against my car in the parking lot, the air cooling as the sky shifts toward dusk. Laughter and music drift out from the theater doors in bursts. I check my phone. Pretend not to rehearse what I’ll say.
When the doors finally open, students spill out in clusters, voices loud and animated. Then I see her.
Sophia steps outside, hair pulled back, script tucked under her arm, glowing in that way people do when they’ve been doing something they love.
She spots me and pauses.
“Oh,” she says, smiling. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I reply, suddenly too aware of my hands. “Tommy got called in for captain stuff. He asked me to tell you he’s really sorry.”
She laughs softly, unsurprised. “Of course he did.”
I hesitated, then added, “He also asked if I could drive you home.”
She studies my face for a second—just long enough to make my chest tighten—then nods. “Yeah. That’s fine. Thanks.”
The drive is quiet at first.
The radio plays low, something acoustic and gentle. Streetlights flicker on one by one as we pull onto the road. I focus on the traffic, the lane lines, anything but the fact that she’s sitting in the passenger seat of my car.
“How was the rehearsal?” I ask eventually.
She lights up immediately, talking about blocking, about a song they’re reworking, about a moment that finally clicked. I listen. Really listen. It’s easy with her.
At a red light, she glances over. “Thanks for waiting, by the way.”
“Anytime,” I say.
And I mean it.
She watches the street ahead for a moment, then looks back at me, a little sheepish, like she’s debating something. “Hey, do you mind stopping at the fro-yo place on Sixth Street?”
I blink. “Fro-yo?”
She nods, smiling. “Yeah. It’s kind of a tradition of mine after rehearsals. Helps me decompress.”
I hesitate for half a second, long enough to remember I’m not supposed to want moments like this but then I shrug. “Sure.”
Her smile widens, genuine and warm. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say, easing the car forward as the light turns green. “It’s on the way.”
“Thank you,” she says, already pulling her hair out of its tie, letting it fall loose around her shoulders. “Tommy usually forgets to stop by.”
The words land softly, but they stick.
We pulled into the froyo place a few minutes later. It’s bright inside, all neon signs and pastel walls, the kind of place that smells like sugar and cold air. There’s only a handful of people inside, mostly kids and a couple of teens killing time.
She hops out of the car first, holding the door open for me. “My treat,” she says, already grabbing a cup.
“I can pay—”
“Nope,” she cuts in lightly. “You drove.”
I let it go.
We stand side by side, filling our cups. She’s meticulous, layering flavors carefully, toppings arranged with surprising precision. I dump everything in like I always do.
She laughs when she notices. “You’re chaotic.”
“Efficient,” I correct.
We pay, then slide into a booth by the window. The spoon feels cold in my hand.
“This is nice,” she says after a moment, glancing around. “Quiet.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “It is.”
She eats a few bites, then looks at me again, thoughtful. “You know… I don’t really get to hang out with you much.”
My chest tightens. “Yeah.”
“I’d like to,” she adds quickly. “If that’s okay.”
I nod before my brain can catch up. “Yeah. That’s okay.”
Her smile is soft, almost relieved.
For a moment, it feels like the world has narrowed down to just this booth, this hum of freezers, this ordinary, dangerous happiness.
And I know, I’m standing way too close to something I shouldn’t want.
Sophia’s spoon slows, then stops halfway to her mouth. She glances over at me, brows knitting together like she’s circling a thought she’s not sure she wants to land.
“Hey,” she says carefully. “Do you know anything about… actually nothing.”
I laugh, light, a little too quick. “What? Don’t do that to me. You can ask. I don’t bite.”
She exhales, relieved, then nods to herself. “Well, you tutor Tommy, right?”
“Unfortunately,” I say dryly.
She smiles, then looks down at her froyo, tracing the surface with her spoon. “Does he… ask you stuff?”
I stiffen, just barely. “What kind of stuff?”
She hesitates again. “Like… how to write things. Or say romantic stuff.”
I laugh louder this time, because if I don’t, I might actually break. “What, you don’t believe Mr. Golden Boy can be romantic?”
“No, no, it’s not that,” she says quickly. Then she winces. “Okay. Can we just be girls for a second? Like forget about Tommy.”
My chest tightens. I nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
She leans back against the booth, eyes on the ceiling for a moment. “I just… I feel like he was really romantic at the beginning. With the letters.”
My spoon freezes midair.
“The letters,” she continues, oblivious, “they were beautiful. Like—really beautiful. Thoughtful. Specific. The kind of stuff that makes you feel seen, you know?”
I nod slowly, my throat dry. “Yeah. I get that.”
“But lately…” She trails off, frowning. “It’s not bad. He’s still sweet. It’s just—different. Like the way he talks in texts or in person doesn’t always match the way he writes.”
My heart starts pounding, slow and heavy.
“I feel crazy even saying this,” she adds with a small laugh. “Like I’m overthinking it.”
“No,” I say quietly, too fast. “You’re not.”
She looks at me then, really looks at me. “You don’t think so?”
I shake my head. “Sometimes people are better on paper,” I say carefully. “Doesn’t mean they’re lying. Just… means they think more when they write.”
She hums, considering. “That makes sense.”
A beat. Then, softer “Those letters felt like they came from someone who notices little things. Like someone who listens.”
My fingers curl tighter around my spoon. She looks back down at her cup. “I guess I just miss that version.”
Something inside me aches, deep and sharp and stupid.
“Have you told him that?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
Of course she doesn’t.
She glances up at me again, eyes searching. “He doesn’t ask you how to write stuff for me, right?”
The question hangs there. Heavy. Dangerous. I force myself to meet her gaze.
“No,” I say. It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.
She relaxes, smiling a little. “Good. That’d be weird, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing. “Weird.”
She laughs, light and unknowing, and takes another bite of froyo.
I watch her for a second too long, realizing with painful clarity. I didn’t just help him get the girl. I taught him how to sound like me. And now I’m sitting across from her, listening to her miss something she never knew wasn’t real.
I stir my melting froyo, the sweetness suddenly too much. I’m standing way too close to something I shouldn’t want. And I don’t know how to step back without everything falling apart.
“Sorry for the serious mood, Rocky,” she says, offering a small, apologetic smile.
“No, it’s okay,” I replied, forcing myself to breathe. Then I grin, something lighter breaking through. “You know what we need.”
She raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“A good drive,” I say. “Let me take you somewhere.”
Her smile widens, playful now. “Are you going to kidnap me?”
“Maybe,” I shrug. “Do you trust me?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
That alone almost undoes me.
We toss our cups and walk out into the cooling evening, the sky washed in soft pinks and blues. The car doors thud shut, familiar, grounding. I pull out onto the road, music low, windows cracked just enough to let the air in.
She hums along absentmindedly as we drive.
When I park, she looks around, confused at first, then something shifts in her expression.
The park is quiet. Swings creak gently in the breeze. The playground is smaller than I remember, but it’s all still here.
“This place…” she murmurs.
“I used to come here a lot,” I say, stepping out. “When I was a kid.”
She follows me, hands tucked into her jacket sleeves. “Yeah?”
I nod, walking toward the swings. “There’s this story I’ve never really told anyone.”
She sits on one of the swings, pushing off lightly. “I’m listening.”
I hesitate, then take the swing beside her. The chains rattle softly.
“When I was younger,” I begin, eyes fixed on the ground, “I was here with Theo and Ava. And there was this girl—older kids were messing with her. Took her toy. She looked so small, so angry, trying not to cry.”
Sophia’s grip tightens on the chains, but she says nothing.
“I don’t know what came over me,” I continued. “I just… stepped in. Told them to knock it off. Didn’t go great. I got shoved around instead.”
She lets out a quiet breath.
“But then,” I say, smiling faintly, “she helped me up. Started scolding me. Told me I was reckless. Stupid.”
Sophia laughs softly. “Sounds like her.”
I didn't catch it. “I just smiled at her,” I go on. “Big, dumb smile. And she got even more mad, because I was bleeding and still smiling.”
The swings slow.
“That was it,” I say. “That moment stuck with me. I never even knew her name. Never saw her again.”
I finally looked over.
Sophia isn’t swinging anymore.
She’s staring at me like the ground has shifted beneath her feet. Like a memory has risen up and wrapped itself around her chest.
“Y/N, that was m—” Sophia hesitates, then exhales a small laugh. “Really cute.”
“‘M-really cute,’” I repeat, grinning. “Are we sure ‘m-really’ is a word?”
“Shut up,” she says, cheeks flushing instantly.
“You’re m-really cute right now,” I joke and immediately regret it.
Her smile softens instead of vanishing. She tilts her head slightly, eyes searching mine. “I’m… cute?” she asks, like the word doesn’t usually belong to her.
Well. She heard it. No backing out now.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “You are. Really cute.”
She blinks, surprised.
“And it’s funny,” I add, trying to explain the feeling before I lose the nerve, “because calling you pretty is the obvious thing. Everyone does that.”
I swallow.
“But calling you cute is kind of stupid,” I admit, a nervous laugh slipping out, “because there are so many better things to say about you.”
She watches me closely now, like she’s afraid to interrupt.
“I could talk about how you notice things other people don’t. Or how you’re kind without making a show of it. Or how you make places feel different just by being there.” My voice drops. “Cute feels too small for all of that.”
Silence settles between us, heavy but not uncomfortable.
Sophia exhales, slowly. “You’re… really bad at compliments,” she says softly.
The moment lingers a second too long, fragile, like it’ll shatter if either of us moves too fast. So I’m the one who breaks it.
I smile lightly, chuckling at her "I know"
I push myself up from the swing, the chains creaking softly. “Let’s get you home.”
She nods, a little dazed, and follows me across the playground. The night air feels cooler now, heavier. Crickets chirp somewhere beyond the fence. The park looks smaller than it did in my memory.
We get into the car.
I start the engine. The radio stays off. It’s not awkward silence, just full. Packed with things neither of us knows how to say without changing everything.
Streetlights flicker past, painting her face in brief flashes of gold. She watches the road ahead, hands folded in her lap. Once, her knee brushes mine when I turn, and my heart stutters like it’s missed a step.
I don’t look at her. I don’t trust myself to.
When I pull up in front of her house, I put the car in park and let the engine idle. The porch light is on. Someone’s shadow moves behind the curtains.
“Thanks for tonight,” she says quietly.
“Anytime,” I reply, and this time it feels dangerous how true it is.
She hesitates, fingers on the door handle, then looks back at me. There’s something unsaid in her eyes. Something tender. Something impossible.
“Goodnight,” she says.
“Goodnight, Sophia.”
She steps out, closes the door gently, and walks up the driveway without looking back.
I wait until the door clicks shut, until the porch light flicks off, until her silhouette disappears completely.
Then I pull away.
My chest aches the entire drive home, a slow, spreading pressure that makes it hard to breathe. The road blurs, familiar turns passing without me really seeing them. The radio stays silent. I don’t deserve music right now.
I shouldn’t have done all this. Shouldn’t have taken her there. Shouldn’t have said any of it.
What kind of friend does that?
Tommy trusted me. Asked me to help him, not this. Not whatever line I let myself hover over tonight. I didn’t kiss her. I didn’t say I loved her. But it feels worse somehow.
I replay the moment over and over. Her smile. The way she said my name. The way she looked at me like I was… something.
Guilt coils tight in my stomach. Because a part of me, small, quiet, honest, doesn’t regret it.
That part keeps whispering that she listened in a way no one ever does. That she laughed with me, not at me. For a few minutes on those swings, it felt like the world narrowed down to just us, and I fit.
I grip the steering wheel harder.
This is how I always mess things up. By wanting. By hoping. By letting myself believe I could be more than the quiet girl in the corner, the helper, the safe option.
I pull into my driveway and sit there, engine running, forehead resting against the wheel.
I did the right thing, I tell myself. I have to believe that.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lunch feels… almost normal.
Tommy’s laughing so hard he nearly chokes on his fries, knocking his tray with his elbow as he does. I’m mid-story, something stupid about a substitute teacher mixing up George Orwell and Rad Bradbury again and for a moment, I forget to be careful.
“Okay, but that’s actually insane,” he says “I swear this school hires anyone.”
I snort. “Low standards. Very on brand.”
He grins, then nudges my arm. Gentler this time. “Hey. Thanks again for taking Sophia home yesterday. Coach totally blindsided me with that call.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “Really. She got home safe.”
“I owe you,” he says, sincere. “Seriously.”
“You don’t,” I reply, because I don’t know how to accept that kind of thing without feeling like I’m stealing something.
Across the cafeteria, I spot Ava llaughing.
Megan’s there, her legs tucked up on the bench beside Ava, fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on Ava’s wrist. Lara and Yoonchae are leaning in close, whispering about something on Yoonchae’s phone. Dani’s talking with her hands like she always does. Manon’s laughing loud, unapologetic.
And Sophia.
She’s sitting between Dani and Manon, hair pulled back, expression bright in a way that makes my chest tighten. She laughs at something Manon says, then, like she feels me her eyes flick up.
They meet mine.
It’s brief. Just a second. She smiles.
My stomach drops.
I look away first. Face red.
“I’m gonna—uh,” I say, standing abruptly. “I’ll be back.”
Tommy raises an eyebrow. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just… gotta ask Ava something.”
I walk over before I can overthink it.
“Hey,” I say, sliding in beside Ava. “Can I steal you for a sec?”
Ava looks up, surprised, then nods. “Yeah. What’s up?”
I keep my voice low. “Have you talked to Theo? Like… recently?”
Her smile falters, just a little. “Why?” she asks carefully.
“He’s been ignoring me,” I admit. “No texts. No calls. He barely even looks at me at school.”
Ava exhales through her nose, glancing briefly at Megan, then back at me. “He’s… in a mood.”
“That’s new,” I say dryly.
She gives me a look. “He’s being stupid. And defensive. And taking things out on the wrong people.”
“Is it because of—” I stop myself. “Is it because of me?”
Ava doesn’t answer right away. Which is answer enough. She reaches out, squeezing my hand under the table. “I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him. Okay?”
I nod, forcing a small smile. “Okay.”
As I pull my hand back, I feel it again.
That pull. I glance up and Sophia is watching me.
Not laughing now. Not distracted.
Just watching.
For a moment, the cafeteria noise fades, and it’s just the two of us across the space, connected by something fragile and dangerous.
Then Manon says something loud, Sophia turns away, and the moment breaks.
I step back, heart pounding.
Normal lunch, I tell myself. Just another day. But nothing feels normal anymore.
When I go back, Tommy’s already leaning back in his chair like he’s been waiting to drop something on me.
“So,” he says, grinning, “Jonah’s throwing a Christmas party this weekend.”
I pause. “A party.”
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You should come.”
I blink. “I don’t really—”
“Before you say no,” he cuts in, pointing a fry at me, “it’s not gonna be insane. Okay, it will be a little insane. But it’s Jonah. Big house, good music, way too much food. It’s basically a holiday requirement.”
I sit back down slowly. “I don’t do parties.”
Tommy scoffs. “You survive parties. There’s a difference. Plus, Ava’ll be there. Theo too.”
At Theo’s name, something in my chest tugs uncomfortably.
“And,” Tommy adds, casual but not really, “Sophia’s going.”
That does it.
I roll my eyes, pretending my heart didn’t just trip over itself. “You’re really bad at subtlety.”
He laughs. “I’m not trying to be subtle.”
I hesitate, fingers tracing the edge of my tray. A party means noise. Crowds. Too many people seeing too much.
But it also means… her. And maybe a chance to pretend everything’s fine for one night.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
Tommy beams like he’s already won. “That’s a yes.”
“It’s literally not,” I mutter.
He stands, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as the bell rings. “Christmas party at Jonah’s. Friday night. I’ll text you the address.”
–--------------
The party came quicker than I expected.
Friday night blurs into existence before I’m ready for it, and suddenly I’m standing in front of Jonah’s house with Christmas lights stapled along the roofline and bass thudding through the walls like a second heartbeat.
I hesitate at the door.
Laughter spills out every time it opens. Someone yells my name, maybe my name, and a wave of warm air, perfume, sweat, and alcohol crashes into me.
I step inside.
Immediately, it’s too much. The house is packed shoulder to shoulder, bodies moving like a single organism. Red and green lights flash from somewhere near the living room. Music pounds through my chest, vibrating my ribs. Someone bumps into me, sloshing a drink dangerously close to my sleeve.
“Sorry!” they shout, already gone.
I stand there, frozen, fingers curling into the straps of my bag like it might anchor me to the floor.
Too loud. Too bright. Too many people.
I try to breathe, but the air feels thick, like it’s been used up already.
Someone laughs too close to my ear. Another body brushes past my back. I flinch, heart racing, suddenly hyper-aware of my own existence in a way I hate.
This was a mistake.
I scan the room, searching for familiar faces, Ava’s hair, Theo’s stupid hoodie, anyone but everyone blurs together in a mess of movement and noise.
The music shifts, heavier now. The crowd roars in approval.
My chest tightens.
I take a step back, then another, pressing myself against the wall near the entryway, trying to shrink. Trying to disappear.
Across the room.
Sophia.
She’s standing near the kitchen, laughing with Dani and Manon, a soft sweater clinging to her frame, hair loose around her shoulders. The lights catch her just right, like the universe is mocking me.
For a second, the noise dulls.
My pulse stutters.
Then someone shoves past me again, and the world crashes back in.
I swallow hard.
God. I really shouldn’t be here.
I try to hang on for a while. I really do.
I drift from room to room like a ghost, nodding when people talk to me, laughing a beat too late at jokes I barely hear. The music keeps getting louder or maybe I’m just getting smaller. Every bass drop feels like it rattles something loose in my chest.
Someone presses a drink into my hand. I hold it for a second, then set it down on the nearest surface and pretend it was never mine.
After ten minutes, maybe fifteen, I can’t do it anymore.
I slip out the back door.
The cold hits me instantly, sharp and clean, slicing through the fog in my head. I suck in a breath like I’ve been underwater too long. The backyard is strung with white Christmas lights, the snow trampled into slush, breath puffing out in little clouds.
I lean against the railing, shoulders sagging. Quiet. Finally,
I close my eyes.
“Hey.”
I open them.
Sophia stands a few steps away, jacket pulled tight around her, hair falling into her face as she tucks it behind her ear. The music is still there, muffled now, a distant thump through the walls.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
"Hey" I say giving her a weak smile.
"What are you doing here?" She asks, head tilting, eyes magnetic as always.
“The sadness will last forever,” I say suddenly. “That’s what Vincent van Gogh wrote. His last words.” I swallow. “I think I agree with him.”
Sophia tilts her head, studying me. Then a small smile tugs at her lips. “You didn’t answer my question there, Rocky,” she teases softly. “But I’ll let it slide. That sounded… interesting.” She pauses. “Do you like last words?”
“It’s a habit, I guess,” I murmur. “Like—‘Money can’t buy life.’” I don’t know why I say it. I just need to. Like the words are knocking and won’t leave me alone.
Her voice stays gentle. “Who said that?”
“Bob Marley.” I tilt my head back, looking up at the stars, scattered and distant, like they don’t belong to us at all.
She’s quiet for a beat. Then, “Do you have a favorite?”
I nod, slow. Careful. “To be continued.”
Her brows pull together. “Who said that?”
“My mom.”
The word hangs between us, fragile.
“I guess the poet comes from her,” Sophia says softly.
The words land gently, not like a compliment, but like understanding.
“Do you want to tell me about her?” Sophia asks softly. “She seems… deep. And caring.”
I stare ahead, at nothing in particular. “She was.” My throat tightens. “I remember her buying me all the books I love to this day. She was a woman with taste. She always told me you can smile through anything. And I really believed it.”
I swallow.
“Until she didn’t.”
“She sounds like someone who left you… a lot,” Sophia adds carefully. “Even if she couldn’t stay.”
I nod, staring at the frost-dusted grass. “Sometimes I feel like everything I write is just me trying to finish her sentence.”
"Thats beautiful" Sophia’s voice drops to a whisper. She bites her lips hesitating to say something then it opens “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thanks.” The word feels too small for what it means.
I don’t know what gets into me, maybe the quiet, maybe the way she hasn’t looked away once, but I feel myself lean toward her, slow and uncertain, giving her every chance to pull back.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she leans in too.
My head comes to rest against her shoulder, tentative at first, then settling. Her jacket is warm. Solid. Real. Her perfume is soft and familiar, something clean and sweet, like laundry and late nights and safety all mixed together.
I close my eyes.
We stay like that for a while. Long enough for my breathing to even out. Long enough for the world to feel distant, manageable.
Then, A shout cuts through the quiet. It’s sharp. Angry. Too loud to be part of the music.
Sophia stiffens beside me. We both pull back at the same time, turning toward the house.
Through the window, bodies shove past each other. Someone knocks into a table. A voice rises, Theo’s, unmistakable. Another answers, louder, tighter.
Tommy.
“Oh shit,” I breathe.
We move at the same time, bolting back inside. The living room is chaos. People have backed away, forming a loose, shocked circle. Red cups litter the floor. Theo and Tommy are squared off, faces flushed, words slurring into something dangerous.
“What’s your problem?” Tommy shouts.
“You,” Theo snaps back. “It’s always you. And you know why.”
“Guys—stop,” Sophia says, pushing through the crowd.
I don’t think. I just act. I step between them, hands up. “Hey. this is stupid. Both of you, step the fuck back”
Tommy turns too fast. There’s a flash of movement. A sharp crack. Pain explodes across my face.
I stumble back, stars bursting behind my eyes as I hit the couch hard. The room goes silent in an instant.
“Oh my god,” someone whispers.
Tommy freezes, horror flooding his expression. “I— I didn’t mean—”
Sophia is at his side immediately, grabbing his arm. “Tommy. Come with me. Now.”
She shoots me one look, apology, worry, something unspoken before pulling him away toward the hallway.
Theo just stands there, breathing hard, knuckles clenched, eyes locked on the spot where Tommy stood.
I push myself up, jaw throbbing. “Come on,” I mutter, grabbing Theo’s sleeve. “Outside.”
He doesn’t resist. I drag him through the back door and into the cold again, the door slamming shut behind us.
The party noise dulls.
I drag him across the yard, my grip tight on his sleeve, until we’re far enough from the door that the music fades into a low, distant hum.
“Hey,” I snap, spinning on him. “What the hell was that?”
Theo yanks his arm free, pacing a few steps before turning back on me. His chest rises and falls hard, eyes glassy, jaw locked like he’s holding something ugly between his teeth.
“What’s wrong?” I press softer now. “Talk to me.”
He lets out a short, brittle laugh. No humor in it. “You would never get it, cause everything is perfect in Y/N's world, nothing bothers her, right?”
My cheek throbs, but I ignore it. “Then make me get it. Let me understand, Theo. I can live with you ignoring me—but I draw the line at you fighting.”
“Just shut up, Y/N,” he spits, cold and sharp “You don’t get it. So just leave it”
My voice rises despite myself. “Is this because of me? Because I set them up? Is that it, cause I don't need you fighting my battles Theo, its bullsh—?”
“I was fucking him, okay” he shouts, cutting me off. The sound echoes in the empty yard. He drags a hand through his hair, breath hitching, the fight draining out of him all at once.
Then, quieter. Broken. “I’m in love with him.”
🏷️
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