At sixteen, we were old enough to know what a colossal mistake it was, but too young to do anything about it.
And faster than I could sayFuck My Life, I was back under his roof, in a house that used to be my second home, only now I was supposed to live here full time. It wasn’t the same. Not evenclose. The kitchen smelled like memories, the living room held echoes, and the walls were covered in ghosts.
Everywhere I turned, there were photos of Tru and me. Back when we were still us. The hallway walls still displayed our childhood: muddy soccer uniforms and grass-stained knees, candles glowing between our grins on Tru’s birthday cake. The two of us shoulder-to-shoulder in every frame, like some time-locked fairytale of best friends who didn’t know any better. It used to make me feel loved. Now it made my skin itch.
The boys in those pictures believed they’d grow up together. Now it felt like I’d broken into someone else’s life and stolen a past that wasn’t mine anymore.
I didn’t belong in this house. Not really. Not now.
But here I was, back in his territory, where every framed photo and every chipped tile whispered,You don’t get to call this home.
I sort of envied Tru’s ignorance.
He didn’t know what it was like, having to live in a house that used to feel like a sanctuary and now felt like a trap. He didn’t know what it was like to lose your mother to a man you didn’t respect, only to be thrown into the arms of a woman you once loved like a second mom and now could barely look in the eye. He didn’t know how it felt to sleep in a room that haunted you with memories of a life you grieved.
This wasn’t a new chapter in my life. This was a sentence. And it wasn’t evenhisfault.
I watched Tru from the bedroom window, the same view I used to have during sleepovers. His body moved through the water in sharp, clean lines. He wore a ridiculous Speedo—navyblue with little white stars. I should’ve laughed. Teased him about it, called him something dumb, something cruel. That was our dynamic now, wasn’t it?
But instead, I stood behind the blinds like a goddamn creep and stared.
His back arched as he pushed off the wall, slicing clean through the water. Long legs, wider shoulders, everything about him stretched taller, leaner, sharper than I remembered.
And then it hit me. Hard. Tight in my throat, hot behind my eyes, low and sick in my gut. That same feeling I swore I buried. It surged before I could stop it. I wanted to puke, not because of him, but because of me.
Because my body betrayed me, lit up before my brain could kill the spark. It always did. As though I wasn’t in control. A painful reminder that something in me still wanted him.
And that made me hate him more than ever because it was easier than hating myself.
Hated that he was constantly around now, some phantom that refused to move on. Justthere, in every room, every corner, same as the air I had to breathe.
Hated that he swam like he was born to the water. As if the world bent for him. He didn’t even realize how loud his existence was, how fucking bright.
Hated how easy he made it look. As if none of it mattered to him, and he hadn’t wrecked everything and walked away without a scratch.
But most of all, I hated that he still got to me, that my chest tightened when I saw him. That my hands shook. That my body remembered. And he didn't even have to try.
I didn’t ask for this. I didn’tchoosethis. Whatever the hell was broken inside me started the night of that kiss, and it had only gotten worse since. And yeah, maybe I should see someone. Maybe I should talk to someone. But I won’t.
Because if I said it out loud, it becamereal.
And if it was real, then I’m not who I’m supposed to be. Not who my dad raised. Not the future lawyer. Not the straight-A, straight-edge, straight-everything golden boy. I’msomething else. Something twisted. Soft. Weak, likehim. Like Tru, with his feelings and his art and his quiet, wounded eyes.
I couldn’t be that. I wouldn’t be that. Because if I admitted any of this, if I peeled back even one layer, there was no telling what I’d find underneath.
And I already knew I wouldn’t survive it. Neither would the version of me the world expected to see. So, I’d keep the lie. Guard it with my life. Even if it killed the part of me that remembered how to breathe.
It was easier to keep the blinds half-closed and my mouth shut. I swallowed it. Buried it. And I promised myself, just a couple more years. Then I’d be gone. Gone from this house. Gone fromhim.
Before whatever this was rotted me from the inside out.
Our parents were happy. God, they wereso happy. Talking about the wedding every night over dinner, giggling like teenagers. Planning color schemes and menus, and honeymoon flights. Meanwhile, we were choking on our own silence across the table.
Tru tried to stay invisible. Quiet footsteps, short replies, always busy, always gone. But I couldn’t let that happen.Couldn’t let him slip through the cracks again. So I poked. Prodded. Made fun of the way the Speedo clung to his junk. Laughed too loudly when he tripped over his towel. Made sure every room we shared was hostile.
Made sure he never forgot I was there.
He didn’t talk back. Not usually. He just absorbed my silence and my sarcasm like rain soaking into the parched earth. But I saw the cracks forming in his expression. I saw the way he flinched every time I walked into the room.
