I kept turning pages. My hands shook.
There were entries from middle school. From freshman year. Sophomore. All of it—his loneliness, his anger, his shame, hiswanting. Even now, he was still writing tome. As if I were the only one who ever mattered. Hecouldn’t let go.
The worst part? Ifeltit. All of it.
My throat burned. My eyes stung. And yeah, okay, maybe I was the villain in this story. But I didn’t ask to be.
I shoved the journal back under his pillow, harder than necessary, and flopped down on my bed, heart sprinting.
I tried to study, even opened my laptop and pulled up the reading assignment for Ethics, or whatever class I was supposed to pretend to give a shit about. My eyes glazed halfway down the first paragraph. Needing things simplified, I pulled the chapter outline from my backpack. That’s when I saw the notes. Little pencil edits. Clarified points. A restructured thesis line.
I hadn’t written them. But I knew that handwriting. It belonged to Tru.
That little shit had gone through my paper and made sure I didn’t fail. He didn’t even tell me. My eyes burned the longer I stared. I swiped at my face before the tear could fall, but it didn’t matter. It slipped out anyway, burning hot down my cheek.
“Fuck you, Truen Jameson,” I hissed. “You don’t get to be the hero in our story. Or the victim. You’re the one who started this shit.”
But even I didn’t believe that anymore.
I stayed in bed long after the screen went dark. Didn’t turn on music, didn’t check my phone, didn’t even bother with the lights. The room was still. Too still. A quiet that makes you start thinking in the places you usually keep locked up.
I stared upward, counting the cracks in the plaster. The pinholes in the tiles. The flickering red glow of the power stripnear Tru’s bed. In my head, I could hear him laughing again—the one I hadn’t earned since the seventh grade.
When he used to run beside me on the soccer field.
When he used to reach out his hand to me in bed during thunderstorms.
When he kissed me like hemeant it,and I let him think I’d be brave enough to stay.
And maybe I could’ve if I hadn’t hated myself so damn much. If I hadn’t feared what others might think of me. I chose them overhim. I choseme.
I’d thought it was self-preservation, but it wasn’t. It was cowardice and stupidity and pure selfishness.
I rolled over and faced the wall, biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to hurt. The sting didn’t even register. I kept seeing Tru’s hands on that guy. The way he smiled at him as if it was easy. Natural. Not a war zone of guilt and denial and wanting and regret.
Tru wanted that bullshit. The dating. The flirting. The kisses. He was moving on. Getting over me. Living out loud.
Meanwhile, I was still stuck. Still listening for his footsteps in the hallway. Still smelling his shampoo in the steam after he showered.
Maybe Iwantedto hurt him. To sabotage him. Agitate him and mess with his stuff. Because if he hated me, I wouldn’t have to hate myself as much.
I kicked the blanket off, climbed out of bed, and walked to the mini fridge. When I popped it open, bright light spilled into the room.
Half a bottle of Gatorade, an apple, leftover fries, and one stupid-ass pink sticky note stuck to the inside.
“I bought you this one since I drank the last. - T”
I stared at it like it was a threat. It was too much. Too kind. Too forgiving.
It was going to make me cry again, and I couldn’t let that happen. So I peeled it off, crumpled it in my fist, and chucked it across the room. I missed the trash, but that didn’t matter.
Because even as I slammed the fridge shut and crawled back into bed, I knew what would come. Same as always. The sounds of Tru’s soft breathing. The rustle of his blankets as he turned toward the wall. The echo of every word he’d ever written in that journal.
“You kissed me, and then you erased me.”
And when I closed my eyes, the feel of his soft lips against mine in a dark closet.
I buried my face in the pillow and whispered, so quiet I almost couldn’t hear it myself, “I didn’t mean to.”
