Chapter 6
TRU
The most painful goodbyes are the ones that were never explained.
Dare went straight home after the party.
No sleepover, no whispered jokes across the dark, no pretending we weren’t dead tired while we made up new plays with his soccer ball balanced on our knees. It felt wrong. Empty.
I woke up with his name in my mouth. Not out loud, just there, heavy behind my teeth, like I’d been dreaming of him. Some part of me was still in that closet, still trapped in the dark with his breath on my cheek, the echo of his lips pressed to mine.
I stayed flat on my back, the blanket tangled around my legs, heart beating too hard in my chest.
I remembered how soft it was. The second kiss, I mean. The first one was nothing, just nerves and pressure and the sound of people waiting outside. But the second kiss was… different.
Slower. Warmer. Intentional.
Real.
It lingered for hours, a mark I couldn’t wash off. I knew I’d never forget.
I sat up and grabbed my phone, stomach already sinking before the screen even lit.
No messages or notifications. Nothing but silence.
Maybe he was sleeping in, I told myself, but the excuse felt thin.
My thumb hovered over his name in my contacts, trembling as if knowing better.
What was I supposed to say? Did that mean anything to you? sounded desperate. Hey felt safer.
I didn’t even know what people our age were supposed to say after something like that. We were thirteen. Most kids were still joking about cooties, not… whatever this was.
So, I typed it.
Hey.
And hit send.
Then I waited, watching the little bubble stay stubborn and still. Nothing. I showered, got dressed, came back, and still nothing.
By noon, the knot in my stomach had turned sharp.
I went outside, walked to the edge of our yard, and stared down the street, half-hoping I’d see him skateboarding or walking to the park or heading to my house like he always did on Sundays.
But the sidewalk remained empty.
Around four, I spotted him. Dare was down the street, walking his bike up the driveway, as if it weighed too much to ride. I lifted my hand halfway in a wave, but he didn’t glance up. Didn’t even pause. Just turned and disappeared into the garage as if I were invisible.
As if nothing had happened between us in that dark closet the night before.
My throat burned. I went back inside, climbed into bed, and checked my phone again.
Still nothing. I deleted a text and typed another.
That thing last night… it’s okay. I won’t say anything.
I stared at it for a long time, going over last night in my head. Everything he said, I said, the kiss. In the end, I didn’t send it.
Then I tried again.
Is this about your Dad? Are you scared of what he’ll say?
But I deleted that too.
Instead, I shut off my phone and lay back down, watching shadows dance above me, wondering when it would stop hurting. Wondering if he was trying to forget me already.
I told myself maybe he was just embarrassed. Maybe he needed time. Space. Maybe he was trying to figure things out the same way I was, trying to make sense of how something so small could feel so big. Or maybe he hadn’t thought about it since. Maybe he’d already forgotten.
But I hadn’t.
I couldn’t.
I kept replaying it over and over. The feel of his breath against my face. The way he leaned back in. How he kissed me like he meant it.
It was the kind of kiss that made everything tilt. Had I been standing crooked my whole life and didn’t even know it until his lips touched mine? Maybe it wasn’t the kiss at all. Maybe it was my reaction to it that bothered him so much.
And now? Now I was falling, and no one was there to catch me.
I wandered into the kitchen and poured myself a bowl of cereal I didn’t want. I stared at the flakes while they got soggy, the spoon never even touching the milk. My mom passed by and kissed the top of my head, humming a song under her breath.
She didn’t notice the festering wound beneath my skin. The way I flinched when she touched me like I might break apart.
“I might go to the park later,” I told her.
“I’ll prep lunch for you and Dare while you’re gone,” she said, already moving toward the laundry room.
I said nothing. Didn’t bother to correct her. Because… Not anymore.
I ended up sitting on the porch for half an hour, phone in hand, constantly refreshing for a reply that never came. I scrolled back through our old texts—inside jokes, plans to hang out, pictures of his new skateboard, a blurry selfie of the two of us making dumb faces at the skate ramp.
That felt like a hundred years ago. I started typing again, hot tears streaming down my cheeks with every word.
Do you hate me?
Deleted it.
I’m sorry.
Deleted that, too. God, what was I even apologizing for?
Wanting something?
Feeling something?
Being honest?
I tossed the phone aside and curled into myself, knees up, forehead pressed to them as if I could hide from how stupid I felt. How exposed. I’d handed him a piece of myself, and he’d just… dropped it.
And the worst part—the part I couldn’t stop thinking about—was that he’d kissed me back.
Not just once. Twice.
And I didn’t imagine the way he’d held his breath. The way he touched my face. How he didn’t pull away until he chose to.
I remembered all of it.
And it felt like I was the only one who did.
By Monday morning, I’d convinced myself it would be okay.
That he’d text me back on the walk to school, or bump into me by my locker and grin as if nothing happened. Maybe he’d even make a joke about it. Laugh it off the way he always did, like the world couldn’t touch him.
I could live with that. I just wanted him to look at me again.
The first time I saw him was before homeroom. He was surrounded by people, laughing at something one of the older boys said. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, shirt untucked, hair messy in a way that somehow made him more perfect.
I waited for him to notice me. He didn’t. I walked past him, slow enough to give him time. Still nothing. Not a glance. Not a nod. Not even that half-smile he always gave me when we locked eyes in a crowded hallway.
Nothing. Just silence, thick and impenetrable, a wall between us that made me feel invisible. By second period, I stopped pretending it was an accident.
At lunch, Dare sat at the far end of the table. He didn’t look up when I passed. Didn’t laugh when I made a joke to someone else. I caught him watching me once, but the second our eyes met, he looked away like I was a mistake he couldn’t afford to make again.
It was worse than him being cruel. He was indifferent.
I wanted to disappear. Crawl out of my skin. Go back to the second before we kissed and choose differently. Say no. Back out. Stay safe.
Instead, I stayed quiet and swallowed it. Until gym. That’s when bad turned to worse.
We were supposed to warm up in pairs, like always. I moved toward him without thinking—three years of habit. But Dare turned away before I reached him.
Someone else paired off with him. I stood there for a full second too long, waiting for him to notice, but he didn’t.
Coach barked at me to move. I ended up with someone I barely knew, doing lazy stretches while my chest burned. And then came the worst part.
A girl from the party leaned in from across the gym mats and said, too loudly, “So, Tru. That kiss at Lauren’s? Was it your first?”
I froze. A couple of guys looked over. A few snickers. I felt my face go hot.
“I—uh—”
Before I could say anything, Dare cut in from behind me.
“Relax,” he said loudly. “It was a joke. Doesn’t count.”
More laughter. My ears burned. One boy clapped him on the back. Another one said, “No homo, right?”
Dare just smirked.
And I laughed too. Because what else was I supposed to do? I kept my eyes down and pretended my chest wasn’t caving in. Pretended his words didn’t feel like broken glass under my skin. Pretended it hadn’t mattered. Even though it did.
God, it did.
That’s when I realized there are worse things than being lonely, like being forgotten by someone you could never forget.
I didn’t go straight home after school. I needed somewhere to breathe, somewhere to break apart where no one could see me.
So, I walked my bike down the old dirt path to the edge of the neighborhood—the part they’d never finished building.
It always seemed forgotten, and today, I needed to be forgotten, too.
The lot was half-wild, overgrown with weeds punching through the gravel.
The dry, cracked dirt crunched beneath my shoes.
One of the wooden posts along the path had snapped, slanted at an odd angle, as if it had given up halfway through standing.
The skateboard ramp loomed ahead, crooked and sun-bleached. A little more warped from summer storms. The screws rusted in places. A piece of plywood had splintered near the corner, but no one ever came to fix it.
I ducked underneath, crawling into the narrow space that used to be ours.
Used to be his and mine.
The air was cooler and quiet. I sat back against one of the support posts, knees pulled to my chest, and looked around like I might find something I’d forgotten.
The dirt was still cool and packed, and the wood above my head creaked softly as the wind moved through the field. I sank back against the beam and just… sat. Trying to breathe. Trying to remember what it felt like when things still made sense.
Sharpie drawings still covered the wood—his messy block letters, my crooked hearts, little doodles of soccer balls and smiley faces. I found the initials we'd sealed with spit and piss. Still faintly visible, even after all this time.
TRU + DARE = FOREVER
Forever. What a fucking joke.
I couldn’t ignore how much emptiness his absence left.
I pressed my forehead to my knees and tried to breathe, but my lungs were on fire. Dare hadn’t just ignored me. He’d erased me. As if I was a stain he had to scrub clean from his life before anyone noticed. And the worst part?
I let him.
I let him humiliate me in front of people who wouldn’t have cared either way. I let him pretend it meant nothing. I even laughed along like the joke wasn’t at my expense, and it wasn’t tearing something raw and sacred out of my chest.
My head throbbed, but I stared at our names until my vision blurred.
I wanted to cross them out. Black them out with ink and anger.
Rip them off the post with my fingernails.
But I couldn’t. Because no matter how hard I tried to pretend I didn’t care, I did.
And even now, after the longest, loneliest day of my life, I couldn’t stop.
The thing about loneliness is, it isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just quiet. Heavy. Constant. A second skin you can't peel off.
I had friends, not close like Dare, but at least they were friendly-ish. People who texted me occasionally. People who invited me to places. But none of it mattered. Not really. Because none of them knew me the way he did.
And I didn’t want them to because the only person I’d ever wanted to share my world with had slammed the door in my face.
I didn’t cry. But I wanted to. I wanted to scream until my throat tore, set fire to the whole ramp, and watch it burn like our friendship. But I couldn’t move.
I just sat there.
Still.
Small.
Forgotten.
Wondering when it will stop hurting so much.
Wondering why he kissed me like a secret, then buried me like a shame, and left me here with the pieces.
By the time I made it home, my eyes were dry, but my chest still felt scraped raw, as if someone had taken sandpaper to the inside of me. I went straight to my room and shut the door. That was rare in our house. Doors usually stayed open, air flowing, voices carrying. But I needed walls tonight.
I lay face down on my bed, my fists pressed under my pillow, holding in everything I couldn’t keep down. The tears came anyway. Quiet, ugly ones. I hated the sound of them, hated the way my shoulders shook.
A soft knock startled me. Mom’s knock. She didn’t wait long before easing the door open, her face gentle but searching. She stepped inside, closed it halfway behind her, and sat down on the edge of my bed.
Her hand found my hair, combing through it the way she used to when I was little. That was all it took. I turned toward her, burying my face in her lap, the floodgates breaking wide open. She stroked the back of my neck, waiting patiently, not asking anything until I could breathe again.
“What’s wrong, baby?” she asked softly.
And I told her. Everything. How I hadn’t wanted to go to that stupid party. How they’d dared us into the closet. How Dare kissed me and then acted like it ruined him. How he hadn’t spoken to me since. How it felt to lose half of myself overnight.
Mom listened, not interrupting once. Her thumb brushed tears from my cheek when I finally lifted my head.
“Did you like it?” she asked. “Kissing Dare?”
My throat tightened, but I nodded. One small, honest nod.
She pulled me into her arms and hugged me hard, as if she could squeeze the hurt out. Her voice was firm but kind when she whispered into my hair. “That’s what I thought.”
She kept holding me, rocking a little like she used to when the nightmares came. “I don’t know how this will turn out, Truen,” she murmured. “But I do know two things. I love you very much. And you’ll survive this. After the hurt, after the tears, you’ll survive. And I’ll be right there with you.”
Her certainty didn’t erase the hurt, but it soothed something inside me. I leaned into her, clinging as if she was the only anchor I had left.
After that night, I built myself a different routine. Not better, not whole, just different. I stopped cutting through the soccer field after school, stopped lingering by the bleachers to watch Dare practice. That part of my life felt like pressing on a bruise, and I couldn’t keep doing it.
Instead, I signed up for a drawing class at the community center. It was awkward at first—rows of strangers hunched over sketchpads, the smell of pencil shavings and paint—but at least my hands stayed busy. The creativity gave my mind somewhere else to go.
Sometimes I tagged along with a couple of acquaintances from art class to the arcade downtown.
We weren’t close, not really. I felt out of place most of the time, standing there with a soda while the machines buzzed and kids shouted over high scores.
But even feeling like the odd one out was better than sitting at home alone, crying into my pillow.
Every laugh I managed to join in on healed another jagged shard of glass lodged in my chest. Every kind smile I received from someone who didn’t know my story dried another stubborn tear I thought I’d never stop shedding.
It wasn’t the same as being with him. Nothing ever would be. But piece by piece, moment by moment, I learned how to exist without my person.