He flipped open his sketchbook without looking up. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I didn’t know if he meant it. I didn’t know if I did. But as Iplugged in my lamp and the room filled with a soft glow, I felt the familiar prickle of panic crawl under my skin.
With Tru so close, it was too easy to remember everything I was supposed to forget.
And that was how our fresh start began—two stepbrothers, one room, and a line down the middle that wouldn’t save either of us.
I stomped back into the dorm after orientation, backpack slung over one shoulder and the relentless late-summer heat clinging to my skin. Fall was late this year, typical for North Carolina. Tru’s side was still a war zone with clothes draped over my half of the closet, shoes scattered everywhere, and sketchpads stacked onmydresser.
“Seriously?” I snapped, letting the door slam behind me.
Tru glanced up from his desk, where he was shading a charcoal portrait. “I unpacked. You said I could use half your closet.”
“Half,” I repeated, yanking one of his hoodies off my clothes rod and dropping it onto his side. “Your side starts here.”
He sighed and gathered the pile without a word, shoulders tight, quiet in that way that made me want to pick a fight just to break the silence.
My gaze snagged on the sketchbook. The portrait on top was of me—shirtless, drawn in careful strokes, the abs a little too idealized.
I raised an eyebrow. “You get bored or something?”
He met my eyes over the page. “Yeah. Guess so.”
I flipped it before I could stop myself. Another me—this time with a soccer ball, jaw set, eyes fierce. Even rendered in charcoal, it looked like I was daring someone to get too close.
“Don’t touch it,” he snapped.
I laughed, but it came out rough. “Fine. Just don’t expect me to pose for your next masterpiece.”
He set the sketchbook down, the movement slow and deliberate, like he was lowering a weapon. His voice softened. “Don’t touch my art,” he said quietly. “And don’t pretend you don’t care.”
The words exploded in a flashbang—bright and loud and way too honest. I looked at the floor because looking at him felt like looking into a mirror I didn’t want to recognize.
The room felt suddenly cramped, the air thick with the scent of graphite dust and things we’d never said. I paced from wall to wall, brushing against proof of his existence every few steps—hoodies, notebooks, pencils. Every piece of him taking up space I didn’t know how to breathe in.
He crouched by the dresser, lining up pens with surgical precision, then rested his palm on the sketchbook’s cover as if he could feel every heartbeat trapped inside it.
“You planning to wallpaper the walls with your feelings?” I asked cuttingly.
Tru froze. He didn’t look up, but he kept his hand there for a long second like I’d hit him somewhere tender.
I wanted to take it back, but the apology jammed in my throat. The words always came out wrong. It was easier to wound than risk being seen.
He finally let go of the sketchbook, tucked a pair of socks into a drawer, and pretended I didn’t exist.
“Didn’t mean it like that,” I muttered, but my voice barely reached him.
The silence stretched, heavy as humidity. I hated it. Hated how quiet hurt more than yelling ever did.
Because when he looked at me—really looked—there was still belief in his eyes. He saw the version of me I’d killed off years ago. He was waiting for the ghost to come back.
And I wasn’t sure it could. Or should.
Tru’s voice came soft but firm. “We made rules, D. Use ’em.”
I swallowed hard, stepping back to my half of the room like it mattered. The line between us glowed invisible and useless. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, flickering once, twice, a warning.
Because borders can’t hold everything.
