I jolted awake, mouth dry, shirt clinging to my back. The dorm was dark except for the blinking light on my phone—one new text.
Tru:
Sorry I missed you. Today was wild. I’ll call tomorrow, promise. Miss you.
I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. In. Out. Rinse. Repeat. It wasn’t enough to steady the pounding in my chest, but it was something.
The phone buzzed again just after midnight. I was already awake, staring at the ceiling like it might give me answers. I answered without checkingthe screen.
“Hey,” I said, voice rough.
Tru’s voice was soft. “Hey, you. Did I wake you?”
“No.” I paused. “You almost didn’t call.”
The ache in my chest spread like a bruise. “I had a weird dream,” I murmured.
“Yeah?”
“You were in it. We were back at school. You were drawing. I tried to talk to you, but you wouldn’t answer.”
Tru exhaled, slow and tired. “I hate that we’re doing this over the phone.”
“Then come home,” I said, only half-joking.
“I can’t. You know I can’t.”
“Yeah,” I said. I did. Didn’t mean I liked it. “I just… I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
Silence filled the line, not empty butfull—of distance, of wanting, of everything we couldn’t reach through a phone.
Finally, I asked, “You still want this, right?”
“God, Dare. Yes.” His voice cracked. “Every damn second.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m losing you anyway?”
“You’re not.”
I waited for something more, something solid enough to believe in. All he said was, “Tell me about your day. Please. Just talk to me like we’re lying in your bed again.”
So I did. I told him about the kid who asked if I used to be cool, and how I lied and said yeah. About the girl who offered me her Capri Sun like it was sacred. About the kid who didn’t speak until I taught him a rainbow kick.
Tru laughed softly. “That’s the boy I fell in love with.”
My whole body went still. Like someone hit pause on the world and left only the echo of his words playing on loop.
He’d said it before, in ways I never let myself believe—but not like this. Not straight honesty, not impossible to misinterpret.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe. I’d spent years imagining this moment—building it up in my head to be lightning or fireworks or the kind of explosion people write songs about.
But the truth hit quieter than that.
A warm rush. A long exhale. Relief so big it almost felt like disappointment, like my body didn’t know what to do without the fear anymore.
I closed my eyes. My heart hurt in a way that almost felt holy. Dangerous. He’d just handed me something priceless and trusted me not to break it.
