Chapter 7
DARE
That kiss wasn’t the end of us. It was the start of me unraveling.
The cafeteria buzzed with bodies. Too many voices talking over each other, laughter echoing off the tiled walls, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum, trays clattering. It should’ve been enough to drown out the sound of my own head.
It wasn’t.
I was aware of him before I even looked up.
Truen sat three tables away, alone, as always, picking apart his sandwich like he couldn’t remember how to eat.
His stare burned through me, prickling like ants beneath my skin.
Stop staring at me. Please! I can’t smile back. I can’t wave at you or grab my tray and sit with you like none of it matters.
My chest ached with every second his gaze stayed fixed on me, like he was asking a question I couldn’t answer.
Tru wasn’t alone because he didn’t have options—he was alone because he chose it.
As if sitting there by himself was some kind of punishment he deserved.
Or maybe one he wanted me to notice. It made something ugly twist in my chest. Like he was saving that empty space for someone who didn’t deserve it.
And the worst part? It worked.
He had friends. Acquaintances. Art kids who banded together over shared interests. But none of them knew him the way I did.
They didn’t know his favorite cartoon or that he’d pick his mom’s grilled cheese over the juiciest burger on earth. They didn’t know the little things. They didn’t know the parts of him that were supposed to be mine, even if I’d never admit that out loud.
There was a stubborn streak in me that hated to see him so solitary. He used to be so full of life, always laughing and smiling. Talking with his hands. Lighting up every room we stepped into together. Making life bearable.
It didn’t sit right with me. But also, fuck him.
He did this.
It was his fault we weren’t speaking.
He didn’t have to kiss me in that closet.
He didn’t have to make me like it.
All he had to do was sit with me in the dark for five fucking minutes. Was that too much to ask? Could he not just sit with me in the quiet without touching me? Without showing me what it did to his body when our lips touched? Or what it would do to mine?
My body betrayed me that day. Reacted in ways I didn’t give it permission to. Hardened with want. Hummed like something alive and breaking open. And the thoughts that lingered after that kiss made me question everything I thought I knew.
Made me hate myself in ways I never had before.
I didn’t even know what to call it at thirteen—shame, anger, want, fear—all of it smashed together until it came out wrong.
And I hated him for that.
I blamed Truen for upending my life. For turning me into someone I didn’t recognize. Someone with secrets I had to keep buried from my parents, my friends, and sometimes even from myself.
He just had to prove my dad right—that boys couldn’t be that close without… without there being more.
He wasn’t the only one who felt lonely.
Even when I was surrounded by people—loud voices, laughter, slaps on the back—I felt like the only person in the room. As if I’d fallen so far down into a hole no one even knew I was missing.
Isolated in a crowd.
A stranger to myself.
People looked at me, but they didn't see me. They listened to what I said, but they didn't hear what I meant. Because inside my head, there was a voice that never stopped screaming:
“You’re not who you pretend to be.”
And no one could hear it but me. Sometimes, I thought maybe Tru heard it. Or maybe he just sensed it. Only the people closest to you can hear you when you’re quiet.
And I hated him more for that. Because the only person who understood what was wrong with me was the last person I could talk to about it.
I didn’t want to hate him. God, I didn’t. But I was furious. Furious that one stupid night had unraveled everything we’d been.
So I sat with my secret in silence, chewing on doubt until it tasted bitter. Sometimes the anger flared up because it was easier to cope with than the thing under it. I wanted him to know how much he’d cost me; to feel the loneliness and confusion I walked around with every day.
I caught him at his locker.
Not on purpose. At least, that’s what I told myself. But my feet always seemed to carry me into his orbit. He was bent over, rearranging his books, hair falling in his face.
He raised his head when he noticed me standing there. His eyes flickered with hope, a raw, vulnerable moment he didn’t have time to hide.
And I did what I had to do. I crushed it.
“Nice shirt,” I said, voice flat and a little too loud. “Did your mom pick that out for you?”
He flinched, just for a second, a tiny hitch in his shoulders, but it was there. I felt it, and it settled in my chest like proof.
I waited for him to snap back. To say something sharp. Something to make me feel like we were still… us. But he just shut his locker, turned, and walked away. He didn’t even glance back at me.
I stood there, staring at the metal door he'd just closed, and something twisted low in my stomach. Guilt, maybe, or some bitter cousin of it. I hated how quiet he was now. How he barely took up space.
He used to talk so much that it gave me a headache.
About cartoons and art and what he’d do if he ever got a time machine.
Now? He was silence walking on two legs.
When I first met Tru, he was the quiet kid, but I brought him out of his shell, made him loud, made him visible.
Now, he was back to hiding again, quiet… invisible.
I turned and slammed my fist into the nearest locker. Not his, just the nearest one. Hard enough to rattle it. Someone down the hall yelled, “Chill, dude.”
I didn’t reply. I didn’t even look up.
Because the truth was, he was still in my head. Always in my head. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t let him go. Because if I stopped picking on him, if I stopped watching him, if I stopped saying something—even something cruel—then it was really over. We were really nothing.
And I didn’t think I could live with that.
I wasn’t strong enough to forgive him. But I wasn't cruel enough to forget him, either.
So I kept hurting him. Because at least then, I still existed in his world. Even if it was just as the villain.
I couldn’t sleep. Again.
I stared up at the ceiling, tracing invisible patterns in the plaster, trying to ignore the tick of the clock on my nightstand and the occasional creak of the house settling into itself.
My room was too clean. Too still. Too full of things that didn’t feel like me.
I rolled onto my side and reached for the notebook I kept stashed in the bottom drawer, the one nobody knew about. My dad had tossed it on my bed after my mom left, muttering, “Here. Heard this is as good as therapy or whatever. Write about your feelings. Just… you know. Get it out.”
I flipped it open. Blank pages stared back at me, waiting for a confession.
Lifting the pen, my hand hovered over the page, then lowered again.
I didn’t know how to say what was inside me. My eyes burned as I tried to write something—his name. Just that. Just Truen.
But I couldn’t even finish the T.
Instead, I closed my eyes and let my mind drift.
I’m under the skateboard ramp.
It smells like dirt and plywood.
Tru is beside me, legs crossed, drawing something with a Sharpie on the wood post. His tongue peeks out of the corner of his mouth because he’s concentrating.
He looks over and grins. “Your turn.”
And for one suspended heartbeat, he’s mine again.
No silence.
No shame.
No lies.
Just us.
Then I blink, and he’s gone. The fort is empty.
I jerked awake, breathing hard as if I’d been running. My throat was tight. My eyes stung. I wanted to go back.
Back to when everything felt simple. Back to when love was just friendship with no rules. No weight. No damn consequences. That just wasn’t possible anymore.
So I grabbed the pen again. And this time, I wrote one word.
"Sorry."
Then I ripped out the page, balled it up, and threw it at the wall. It landed on the floor with an unsatisfying sound instead of the rage-filled thunk I needed.
Even in dreams, I couldn’t keep him.