At first it was things I couldn’t say out loud.
“Why did you look at me like that today?”
“You left your hoodie in the backseat again, and now the car smells like you. Was that on purpose?”
“I miss how we used to laugh in the middle of the night.”
Then it turned into a habit, a ritual, a place to put all the things that hurt too much to carry. Sometimes it was a full one-sided conversation full of rambling.
You wouldn’t believe how hard that critique was today. Professor Haskell asked if I was afraid of honesty. I almost laughed. If she knew how much I wrote to a ghost every night, maybe she wouldn’t ask.
Sometimes it was smaller.
Wore the stupid pink Converse again today. The ones you said were identical to your cousin Chelsea’s. I thought of you. Still fits. Still hurts.
And sometimes it was just:
I miss you. I hate that I still miss you.
I was halfway through writing that one—pen hovering, tears prickling—when I heard the door click. My whole body jolted.
Dare walked in, kicking the door closed with his heel, tossing his keys onto his bed. I slammed the journal shut and shoved it under my pillow so fast I crumpled the corner of the page.
He didn’t look over right away. He opened the fridge we’d crammed between our desks, muttered something about needing more Gatorade, and then finally glanced in my direction.
“You jump every time I walk in like I’m the Boogeyman,” hesaid, the corner of his mouth twitching like he half-meant it as a joke.
I forced a shrug. “Old habits.”
He stared at me a second too long, like he was going to say something else. But he didn’t. Just grabbed a granola bar, turned his music up too loud, and flopped onto his bed.
I didn’t touch the journal again that night. But I lay in bed with my fingers pressed to the cover, hidden beneath my pillow, as if I was still holding a lifeline. Still waiting for an answer that never came.
But maybe I didn’t want an answer. Maybe I just wanted proof he was still in there somewhere, remembering me, too.
From the second-story window of the arts building, I could see the soccer field sprawled out like a green stage. Dare was out there, sharp and fast and magnetic in motion. His jersey stuck to his frame, sweat-slick and clinging as he darted past defenders. He moved like he had something to prove, like if he ran hard enough, he could outrun the weight of everything he carried.
I’d seen this version of him before. Focused, powerful, untouchable. But now, watching him from a distance, I saw something else too. Desperation. That he was playing for more than just a score.
My fingertips ghosted over the glass without me realizing, a quiet, ridiculous gesture, like touching it could steady him. I worried for him more than I wanted to admit. The scholarship that got him here wasn’t just a badge of pride; it was a lifeline.And I knew Dare. Knew the way he coasted through academics. Knew how fast he could unravel if he didn’t keep it together.
The pressure of keeping up academically, being in the pre-law track, and participating in sports was too much. I could see the toll it was taking on him, the dark bags under his tawny eyes, the restless nights, and the growing agitation.
Sometimes I imagined slipping my notes into his bag when he wasn’t looking, or sitting across from him in the library like we used to. But then I remembered the toothbrush. The pranks to get under my skin. The hot-and-cold cruelty he wielded like a shield.
He didn’t want help from me. Not anymore. But when he crumbled under the pressure of being what everyone wanted him to be, who would be there to pick up the pieces?
“Hey.” A voice behind me pulled me out of the moment.
I turned to see someone from my intro to color theory class—Brian, I thought his name was. Messy auburn curls. Freckles across his cheeks. Paint-stained button-down. The kind of guy who always looked like he lived in a studio, who sketched during lectures and didn’t care what anyone thought of it.
“You always watch the field after class?” he asked, stepping beside me to peek out the window.
I smiled faintly. “Sometimes.”
“Your boyfriend?”
The question hit hard. My throat went dry. I glanced sideways, expecting teasing in his tone, but he looked genuinely curious.
