The thought of wanting anything just felt exhausting. People hurt you. People disappoint you. People betray your trust. Fathers, even best friends. Evenbrothers.
“I gotta go. We’ll talk again this week,” I assured her before ending the call.
By the time I got back to the dorm, the sun was bleeding out behind the quad, smearing orange and pink across the windows. The room looked softer in that light, even with the mess of Dare’s cleats and my art supplies scattered over every surface.
It almost felt like home. Almost.
I dropped my bag and stood there for a long minute, trying to decide if going to the mixer was brave or just pathetic. Maybe both.
The closet door creaked when I opened it. My good jeans hung next to a wrinkled button-up I’d bought on sale for “occasions that required pretending I had my life together”. I ran ahand down the fabric and sighed. “Guess you’re up,” I muttered.
Getting dressed felt like gearing up for battle. One small decision after another that somehow mattered too much. Shirt tucked or untucked? Rolled sleeves or not? Sneakers or boots? Every reflection in the mirror stared back like a question I wasn’t sure how to answer.
Behind me, Dare’s desk light was still on. His textbook lay open, but the page looked untouched. I tried not to think about where he was, who he was with, or what he’d say if he saw me dressed like this. Probably something cutting but half-smiling. Probably the kind of teasing that used to make my stomach flip in good ways.
I straightened the collar again, trying to steady my hands. My chest felt tight, too much heart for such a small space.
At the last second, I reached for my sketchbook. Not the one full of memories, the other one—the clean one. The one that didn’t ache when I opened it. I tucked it under my arm like armor.
The hallway outside buzzed with the noise of laughter, doors slamming, and the sound of someone sprinting down the stairs. I hesitated at the threshold.
Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I stepped into the noise, into the night air that held the promise of possibilities instead of loneliness.
Maybe Amira was right. It was time to stop orbiting someone who wasn’t looking back.
Still, as I crossed the quad toward the art building, I caught myself glancing at the soccer field. Empty now, but I couldalmost picture him there, under the floodlights, all motion and fire.
I tore my gaze away and kept walking.
The party buzzed with soft jazz, laughter, and the scent of wine that probably cost less than the plastic cups it was poured into. I stuck with ginger ale and lime. Strings of Edison bulbs zigzagged across the studio ceiling, throwing everything into a warm, forgiving glow. For once, I didn’t feel like he was intruding. I just… belonged.
Clusters of students lounged against easels and display tables, their conversations centered around paint formulas, internships, and gallery gossip. Someone from my sculpture class waved me over and introduced me around. Faces blurred into a whirl of names and colors. A girl in overalls complimented my sketches. A senior critiqued my shading technique, but in a way that felt almost like praise. The air buzzed with potential, possibility, and a dozen new beginnings waiting to be drawn.
Brian found me halfway through a story about a disastrous still-life assignment, grinning like he’d been looking for me. He handed me a cup of cheap sangria and leaned close enough that I could smell the faint sweetness of it on his breath.
“You clean up nice,” he teased. “Didn’t take you for the ‘button-up and brood’ type.”
I shrugged. “Didn’t peg myself for it either.”
We talked about art and professors and about nothing,really. Brian was funny in a disarming way, the kind of person who could make small talk feel like a secret. When he laughed, he leaned in just enough that I could feel the warmth of it. And for the first time in months, I didn’t feel like I was watching life happen from behind glass.
By the end of the night, Brian offered to walk me back. The campus was quiet, slick with dew. Our footsteps echoed in the quiet between lamplight and shadow, and at the dorm steps, Brian hesitated. Hands in his pockets. A hopeful tilt to his mouth. I recognized the look, the quiet ask for something more.
“I had a good time,” he murmured.
For a second, I almost considered saying yes. Almost let the night end in a way that would’ve felt good, or at least easy. But something inside me held still. The parts of me I was still trying to recover. Pieces I wasn’t ready to hand over yet.
“Thanks for walking me,” I said.
Brian’s smile dimmed, then softened. “Anytime.”
When the door closed behind me, I leaned against it, heartbeat still uneven. I wasn’t ready yet—not to be touched, not to be kissed. But for the first time, I wanted to believe I might be someday. And that felt like progress.
The faint hum of Dare’s laptop fan was the only sound when I got to the room, and even that felt too loud.
Stripping off my shirt, I tossed it in the laundry bag and changed my slacks for sweats. I reached under my pillow for the journal, my oldest secret. The cover was soft and worn, the pages bent like an old map I’d folded many times. Every entry was a conversation I’d been too scared to have out loud. My ink-stained confessions. Quiet attempts to hold on to a version of Dare that probably never existed.
Tonight, the pen felt heavier in my hand. I didn’t write to him this time. I wrote to myself.
