Chapter 5
5
BEVERLY, 1994
12 years old
Weeks. It had been weeks since Blake really talked to me. Sure, he answered when I spoke first—short, clipped responses that made it painfully clear he didn’t want to—but he hadn’t sought me out. He hadn’t talked to me the way he used to. The way I was used to. The way I needed.
I noticed it immediately, of course. How could I not? He was my best friend. And suddenly, I wasn’t his.
At first, I told myself it was nothing. A phase. He was in a mood, and it would pass. But the more time that slipped by, the more I realized it wasn’t just a mood. This was a choice.
He was choosing this. Choosing distance. Choosing silence.
And choosing not to tell me why.
At first, I tried not to push. Maybe he needed space. Maybe something was on his mind, and he just wasn’t ready to talk about it. But every day that passed, every time I caught his eyes flickering past me like I wasn’t even there, it chipped away at me.
I replayed our last real conversation over and over, searching for the moment where it had all gone wrong.
Had I said something? Missed something? Did he realize something about me that he didn’t like anymore? The questions burned in my head, always lingering at the back of my thoughts.
One night, I couldn’t take it anymore.
If he wasn’t going to start the conversation, I would.
I stood in his doorway, arms crossed over my chest, heart pounding way too hard for a stupid conversation.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Blake, sprawled out on his bed, barely spared me a glance from his book. “Nothing.”
“Liar,” I scoffed, stepping further into the room.
He sighed through his nose, turning a page. “Beverly.”
“No. Don’t ‘Beverly’ me. You’ve been acting like I don’t exist for weeks.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being honest,” I shot back. “If I don’t talk to you first, we don’t talk at all.”
He didn’t say anything.
I clenched my fists, feeling something sharp rise in my chest. “Did I do something? Are you mad at me?”
“No.”
“Then what?” I threw my hands up. “What is it?”
He still wouldn’t look at me.
My stomach twisted, frustration curling into something worse. Something ugly and aching and desperate.
“Blake,” I said, softer this time. “I… I miss you.”
That finally made him pause. For a second, his grip on the book tightened. His fingers twitched like he wanted to turn another page but couldn’t.
He finally looked up, and for a moment, I thought—hoped—I’d gotten through to him.
That I wasn’t the only one who felt like something had shifted. Like something was wrong .
But then he just sighed and said, “You should get a hobby.”
I blinked. A hobby ? “I’m sorry—what?”
He shrugged. “Might help.”
Help with what ? The fact that he was shutting me out?
I stared at him, feeling the weight of every single day we spent together. Every moment, every conversation, every time I thought we were something unshakable.
My throat burned. “You are my hobby.”
I thought maybe that would break him. That he’d finally look at me. That he’d say something, anything, to make this make sense. But he didn’t.
He just turned another page and kept reading.
So, I did what he told me to.
I got a hobby.
Dancing.
And it helped—kind of.
It gave me something to do, something to focus on, something to keep me from sitting in my room at night waiting for the knock that never came. It kept me from spiraling and dwelling too much on the space Blake left behind. But no amount of dancing could change the fact that I missed him. That I wanted to shake him until he looked at me again.
So one day, I did.
I didn’t actually shake him, but I did slam my hands down on the table he was sitting at, making his book jump. “ Blake .”
His eyes flicked up to mine, unreadable, before dropping back to the page. “Beverly.”
“You can’t ignore me forever.”
He hummed like he wasn’t listening, turning another page.
“You. Can’t. Ignore. Me. Forever.”
“Haven’t been ignoring you.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Right. You just suddenly forgot how to have a conversation with me.”
Nothing.
I clenched my teeth, planting myself in the chair across from him. “What are you even reading?”
“Arabic.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Arabic,” he repeated, still not looking at me. “Jamal’s parents speak it. If I go over there, I want to be able to understand them. You know, actually communicate instead of standing there like an idiot while they switch to English for my sake.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
That was so… Blake . To just wake up one day and decide to learn an entire language, no hesitation. And for what?
To be respectful? To make things easier for them?
“Forwhat?” I demanded. “To be impressive?”
“To be polite .”
I swallowed, shifting in my seat. “Since when do you even care about Jamal’s parents?”
That made his jaw clench.
Hefinallylooked up at me. “They invited me over.”
“And you said yes?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
I studied him, my fingers drumming against the table. His face was blank. Too blank. Like he was forcing himself to be unaffected, to be distant. Like he was hiding something.
“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”
His grip on the book tightened. “I haven’t been?—”
“Yes, you have .” My voice wavered slightly, but I didn’t care. “You think I don’t notice when you stop knocking? When you stop looking at me? When you barely even acknowledge me?”
Blake’s mouth pressed into a hard line.
“You’re pushing me away,” I choked out, my voice trembling with frustration. “And I don’t understand why .”
For the first time, he looked uncomfortable.
Good. He should’ve been.
I stared at him, waiting for something that would make me feel like I still belonged in his world.
But all I got was silence.
And the sound of him turning another page.
I felt something in my chest crack.
His shadow had once been my refuge, but shadows, as I came to understand, fade when the light no longer cares to shine.
Tears welled up, blurring my vision and making everything even more impossible to grasp.
Fighting against the tight knot of emotion rising in my throat, and with all the dignity I had left, I pushed back from the table. “Fine,” I said. “Enjoy your book, Blake.”
I stood up, turned around, and walked away.
I didn’t look back.