His words tremble like they cost him more than anything ever has. Maybe pride or denial. Or maybe the last scraps of the version of his father he grew up believing in.
“I don’t want to be someone who hurts people just because he can. And I know that’s exactly who I’ve been, but I just…” His voice is low and frayed around the edges, and now he’s looking at me like he expects me to give him whatever it is he wants. “I don’t want that.”
I don’t know what this past week has been like for him, but ifthisis the Pierce that exists now, I’m not sure I want to know.
Letting out a slow breath, I decide to give himsomething. I can’t give him what he’s asking for—forgiveness or absolution or whatever the fuck it is. Not yet. I don’t trust him to go back to who he’s always been after the grief of losing his father fades. But I’ll cave this one time.
“You know how you do that?” I ask.
He arches a brow, eyes searching mine like he’s prepared to beg me for the answer.
“Don’t be,” I say simply.
Pierce lets out a breath that fogs in the cold air, almost a laugh but not quite. “Yeah. I’m trying.”
Neither of us says anything else for a few seconds as we both glance back at the trail where students are still walking by, unaware of the small truce happening between the bully and the one who killed his father.
Eventually, Pierce clears his throat. “Anyway, that was all. I just needed to say it.”
He steps back, gives me a final nod, and turns away.
No threats.
No hatred.
No fight.
Just a boy trying not to inherit the worst parts of the man who raised him.
As he slips back into the flow of students, I stand there longer than I mean to, letting the noise of campus swell around me.
I may not be fully okay yet, but I think I’m getting there.
Surprisingly, I hope this helped Pierce get there a little bit too.
Maybe this is what healing actually looks like. Not a clean break or some dramatic rebirth. Just small shifts. Small words with profound meanings. Small moments that make breathing a little easier.
And I think I can live with that.
It’s twenty minutes to five,that quiet pocket of the afternoon when campus starts to empty and the halls outside my office hold that soft, hollow quiet before it goes silent for the night. The sky outside my window is that late-winter blue, still pale but warmer than it used to be with spring approaching.
My desk is littered with essays, not even half of them graded. I haven’t been able to concentrate since my last class ended. Actually, I haven’t been able to concentrate for most of the day. Not since Jackson’s text this morning.
Jackson:You’re never going to believe what just happened. Don’t worry, it’s good! Just very unexpected. I’ll come by your office after my last class. Maybe we can get some coffee before going home.
Home.
My eyes lingered on that one word for a while, an automatic smile stretching across my face in the middle of the hall while I was on the way to my classroom.
Then the rest of his message registered.
It’s not that I’ve been filled with any kind of trepidation all day, just some pretty intense curiosity.
I’ve learned so much about Jackson these last couple of months, and that’s one of the habits I’ve noticed he has—teasing me with a mystery he can’t yet share. I don’t think he does it on purpose. He just gets so excited about things, says he hassomethingto tell me, but waits to do it in person.
As frustrating as it can be sometimes, it’s also kind of adorable.
Jackson’s class should’ve let out about ten minutes ago, so he should be here soon to finally tell me whatever it is that happened this morning. I keep looking up to check the open doorway, feeling my pulse spike a little when he’s not there. Every now and then, I still have to remind myself not to worry.
