"I'm not going to catch you doing anything," Ethan said. Gentler now. "If anything personal shows up in footage, it doesn't make the cut. You have my word."
I believed him.
"Okay," I said. "Just — be careful with the angles."
"I'm always careful with angles. I'm a filmmaker."
"You're a sophomore with a laptop and an assignment you didn't want."
"Rude." But he was smiling for real now. "Oh—other news. Speaking of being afilm maker… The indie festival in Vermont is announcing selections next month."
"For the Berlin doc?"
"Yeah. Screening's in December if I get in. Little theater in Burlington." His knee was bouncing—the tell he had when he was excited and pretending not to be. "Will you come? If I get in. I don't want to watch it alone in some cold theater."
"Yeah," I said. No hesitation. "I'll come."
"Really?"
"I said I would."
He nodded. Looked down at his coffee. When he looked back up, his eyes were bright. "Cool. That's—yeah. Cool."
We talked for another hour. About his Film Theory professor who wore the same corduroy jacket every day. About a guy in his editing class who kept rendering everything in the wrong aspect ratio. About whether the practicum documentary could at least have a decent soundtrack.
When he left, I stood in the doorway and watched him walk down the hall. His laptop bag bouncing against his hip. His hand raised in a wave without looking back.
I closed the door.
Two people in my life knew the real me. Ethan, who'd named what I felt before I could. And Liam, who made me feel it.
Everyone else got the performance.
That night I lay in bed with the day stacked up inside me like sediment. Marcus's smile. My father's voice. Ethan's camera.The 5K that proved we could win. All of it pressing down, layer after layer.
Then my phone buzzed.
Liam
You up?
I typed back.
Alex
Always.
Just seeing him in my texts quieted the noise in my head.
We texted most of the night before we both passed out too late.
Worth it.
Chapter 4: Liam
End of the first week and my body was falling apart.
Not injured—just wrecked. Five days of Hale's intensive sessions on top of regular conditioning, and every muscle fiber in my body had filed a formal complaint. My hands were torn up—blisters cracked open and re-cracked, taped over with athletic wrap that was already peeling. My shoulders felt like someone had taken a crowbar to them.
