DARE
Some part of me thought we’d turned a corner. Now I’m wondering if it was just a dead end.
I didn’t expecthim to fall into my arms or cry on my shoulder. I didn’t even expect forgiveness. But I thought… something.
I thought if I admitted that I was lost—if I said those words out loud, bared the smallest piece of myself—he’d take the chance to say something back. Maybe not a reconciliation. Just a nudge. A sign. Anything.
But he didn’t.
The next day, Tru didn’t mention our conversation. Didn’t bring up the moment I told him he was the only person who could help me figure out who I really was. Didn’t act like anything had happened at all.
So what else was I supposed to think? I gave himthe ball, and he never passed it back. If silence was an answer, I guess I got mine.
Now I was stuck here in this dorm room that smelled like stinky sneakers and his cologne, trying not to notice the quiet between us. Tru didn’t even look at me when he walked in, just tossed his bag on the chair and brushed his teeth like I wasn’t there.
I could’ve sworn something had shifted. A softness. A kind of hope. Something old and familiar sparking in his eyes. But maybe that was just me, wanting too much, seeing past versions of us in the dark. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Hope was a dangerous thing to feel around Truen Jameson.
He’d probably told Amira everything. Maybe they’d even laughed about it. I could almost hear her saying,“Can you believe Dare actually said that?”
My jaw tightened as I slammed a drawer harder than I meant to. If he wanted to pretend it never happened, fine. Let him.
I didn’t care. Not really.
Only—I did. And that was the worst part.
I dragged a hand through my hair, pacing the narrow strip of floor between our beds. His side was neat. His bed made. Like he was already erasing the proof we ever lived in the same space. That we’d ever mattered to each other at all.
Maybe I’d read too much into the way he looked at me in the moonlight, like he still saw something worth saving. I thought I’d left the door open, just a crack. Enough for him to walk through if he wanted. But days passed. Then a week. And all I got was Tru acting normal. Too normal. Friendly, even.
And maybe I should’ve been used to that. To his silence. To the way he built walls instead of bridges. But this time, it felt personal. He heard every word I said that night… and decided I wasn’t worth the risk.
My stomach clenched as I kicked my sneakers off, one landing sideways near his desk. Good. Let it stay there. Petty, sure, but pettiness was easier than pain.
I sat on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, and told myself I was over it. But my chest still tightened when I heard his laugh from down the hall. Someone else was getting the soft part of him I used to know. The part I still craved. The part I thought could save me.
I wished the cost of his friendship was something I could afford to pay.
I scrubbed my hands over my face, tired of the noise in my head. I’d given him a moment—let him see me, raw and unfiltered—and he looked away. That’s what hurt most. Not the silence. The choice.
My anger blinded me to the fact that Tru spent years waiting on me, while I’d spent less than a week. But I couldn’t keep playing the fool in a story I never asked to be part of.
I screamed into the void, “Fuck you, Tru!” Then shoved off the bed and grabbed the nearest book, slamming it shut before tossing it onto my desk. The sound wasn’t half as satisfying as I wanted it to be.
I told myself I was done waiting. Done hoping. Done making space in my life for someone who didn’t want to be in it.
Tru had his chance, and he walked away.
So, it was time I did, too.
The dorm felt quiet and empty without him, a mausoleum of memories.
Tru was out again. Probably withhim, the guy who kept showing up in all the wrong places. The one who made Tru subconsciously lick his lips and throw out flirty smiles. The one who didn’t know him. Not really. Not like I did.
I tossed my keys onto the desk and started to pace.
I hadn’t meant to look for it, but once the thought entered my head, I couldn’t erase it.
