“Yeah? And whose fault is that? Not his. You’re the one who left. You didn’t just ghost him, you fucking shattered him, and now you’re acting like he’s the problem for existing in the same goddamn space?”
I close the distance between us, my chest brushing his. “You don’t know what the fuck happened, Ryan.”
“No, I don’t, because you won’t tell me!” he exclaims. “You won’t tell him, either, and he’s the one who fucking deserves to know more than anyone. I’ve been watching you both circle each other like you’re afraid touching will make you combust. Newsflash,pendejo—it already did.”
My vision goes red, and my fist connects with his jaw before I register that I’ve moved.
The crack echoes through the locker room, cutting through the sound of the showers and banter. Ryan’s head jerks sideways, and he stumbles back half a step, catching himself on the edgeof the bench. The red blooms fast on his cheek, a flash of color against flushed, tanned skin.
A few lockers slam shut mid-conversation. One of the guys mutters a low “holy shit,” but no one intervenes.
Ryan straightens slowly, hand rising to cradle his jaw. He doesn’t hit me back or yell. He just looks at me, and it’s fucking worse than anger.
“¿Te sientes mejor?” he asks, his voice tight.
The adrenaline spikes, then crashes, leaving nothing but shame and the dull ache in my knuckles. My stomach twists as I look at him and see what I’ve done.
“No,” I mutter, swallowing hard. “Fuck. Ryan—”
“Don’t,” he says, holding up his hand. “Just… don’t.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“But you did,” he cuts in. “You wanted to hurt someone, and I was right there.”
I breathe out through my nose. “You pushed me.”
“I always push you,” he says, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “That’s never made you violent before.”
The guilt crashes over me so fucking fast, I might puke. I sit down hard on the bench behind me, elbows on my knees, hands curled tight. I don’t have a defense. I don’t have anything except this fucked-up knot in my chest and a shame I can’t swallow.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe. “Fuck, Ryan. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
Ryan studies me for a second, then he exhales and glances toward the door, where a couple of the guys are still watching us like it’s a car crash they can’t look away from. “Sort your shit out, Moore,” he mutters, then grabs his gym bag and turns away.
The moment he walks out, the shame deepens.
I punched one of my best friends because I can’t handle the way Noah exists in the same building as me. Because I can’t get a grip on the feelings I’ve been burying since the day I walkedaway from him. Because two days of seeing him again is enough to unravel everything I’ve tried to stitch back together.
I let my head fall into my hands, heart pounding against my ribs.
I can survive a lot, I’ve proven that. But I’m not sure I can survive him again.
Damien
Thelockerroomismostly empty by the time I force myself into the showers. My hand still aches from hitting Ryan, knuckles raw and tender from the impact, but the guilt burns worse than the bruised skin ever could.
I scrub harder than necessary, trying to wash off the weight of what I did—of what I keep doing. Letting everything inside me build until it’s too much and then unloading it on the people who don’t deserve it.
The water is hot enough to sting, and that’s the point. I stand under it longer than I should, hands braced against the tiles, head bowed, water cascading down my back and shoulders as I try to breathe through the noise in my head. I see his face when I close my eyes—not Ryan’s, though his is there too, bruised and disappointed—Noah’s.
Noah, sitting at that table, quiet and small, trying to make himself invisible. Noah, not meeting my eyes. Noah, in that oversized hoodie, sleeves pulled over his fingers, barely eating,barely speaking, barely looking like the boy I remember. And despite everything I’ve done, he’s still beautiful. Still every reason I can’t think straight.
I hit the tile with the side of my fist, not hard, but enough to feel the jolt. I deserve more than that; I deserve worse. I let the water keep pouring until it runs cold and my fingers start to go numb. Only then do I shut it off, then towel myself dry in short, jerky movements before pulling on my clean clothes.
By the time I get to my car, the sun’s starting to set. The sky’s that soft, dusty pink that always reminds me of driving through the hills with my dad in the off-season, windows down, radio on low. I sit in the driver’s seat with the door shut and engine off, letting the quiet stretch out around me. I crack a window low enough to let in the cool air.
My phone sits in the cup holder, the screen dark. I stare at it for a while, debating whether what I’m about to do is even worth it. But I know I need to. I always do when I get like this.
