I smile at the screen like a fucking idiot, sinking deeper into the bed. I don’t remember the last time I felt this relaxed. Not even earlier in the gym with Luca. There’s something about Noah’s voice that disarms me. Always has.
Me: How’s the new place? You settled in okay?
There’s a longer pause before the next voice message comes through.
“Yeah. Mostly. I still haven’t figured out where I want my new desk, and I’ve been putting it off because I’m indecisive and it’s not like anyone else sees it. But it’s nice. Big closet. Good light. And the walls aren’t paper-thin, so I don’t have to hear Roman’s playlist at 3 a.m., which is a win.”
I snort at that, because yeah, Roman has shit taste in music.
Me: You say that like hearing Nickelback at full volume isn’t a spiritual experience.
His next voice message comes with the sound of him laughing, and my heart fucking skips a beat.
“He really was listening to Nickelback my last night there, wasn’t he? I thought I dreamt that.”
Me: It was real, and we all suffered. He gets all emo when his boyfriend is out of town on commissions.
It takes a few minutes before he responds to that, but the playfulness is gone from his tone.
“I didn’t realize how much I missed talking to you. Stupid, right?”There’s a soft laugh, self-conscious but not bitter.“I’m not great at texting. You know that. My brain does better when I can just talk it out. Less pressure.”
That part hits hard because I do remember. Sometimes he’d send a dozen voice messages in a row, even when we were only in our rooms, and I’d listen to each and every one. I don’t want to make it heavy, but I also don’t want to pretend it didn’t mean something.
Me: I missed you so fucking much, Blue. You have no idea how good it feels to hear your voice again.
There’s no response right away. Not a voice note. Not a text. I watch the screen, heart thudding. Maybe it was too soon. Too much. Maybe I should’ve eased into it. But I can’t take it back now.
Another voice message pops up a minute later, and his voice is softer than before.
“I don’t know what to say to that.”
Yeah, I know. I fucking know. I type out a reply, then delete it. Do it again. Finally, I just write:
Me: You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.
I’m a fucking idiot when it comes to this boy.
I can bag any person at a party, get more numbers than I’d ever text or call, and charm my way out of anything. But put me in front of Noah Adams, and I turn into a goddamn mess.
When it comes through, I notice his next voice message is longer than the others.
“I wanted to hate you. For a long time, I tried to. Every time I thought about you, I got so mad I couldn’t breathe. But thenI’d remember the way you used to look at me when you were proud of me,”he says, and I can practically hear the sadness in his voice.“Or the time we snuck out to the beach at like 1 a.m., and my father grounded us for two months. Or how you used to hum songs when you thought I was asleep. It’s hard to stay mad at someone who made you feel safe. Even… even when they stopped being around to do it.”
That’s the most honest thing he’s said in four years, and I don’t want to ruin it by saying the wrong thing again. But before I can respond, he sends through another one.
“Anyway. Sorry. Stir fry update: didn’t burn it. I think I deserve a trophy.”
I sigh, knowing he changed the subject for his own peace of mind, so I don’t dwell on it even though I have so much to fucking say to that.
Me: I’ll make you one out of Ryan’s protein powder container.
He laughs in the next one.“Perfect. Sculpted muscles and sculpture materials. He’ll be honored.”
We go back and forth like that for a while. Easy. Low-stakes. We don’t talk about the past again. We don’t talk about the hurt, or the distance, or the thing I can’t talk about. We just… talk.
He sends a voice note about his latest photography project, and something else about studying reflections and symmetry. I ask if he’ll let me see the photos when he’s done. He says maybe. Then tells me about a professor he doesn’t like, and I tell him about the new guy on the team who can’t shoot a free throw to save his life. He laughs at that, and I can hear it clearer this time, not muffled by food or distance.
But then he takes a while to respond. I frown and type another message.
