Chapter 25
TRU
The thing about heartbreak is you can’t scream it out of your system. It’s a plague that infects your blood and rots you from the inside.
I moved through the next day on autopilot with my jaw tight and shoulders hunched against a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
I didn’t even remember the walk to class.
One blink, and I was already sitting in my morning seminar, pen in hand, staring at a blank page while everyone else scribbled furiously. I copied the date and nothing else.
By the time I made it back to the dorm, my knuckles were stiff from the wind, and my throat burned from too many swallowed words.
Dare wasn’t there. Thank God.
I left the door unlocked out of spite, half-hoping someone would wander in and steal the tension that never seemed to leave.
The mirror over our tiny sink didn’t pull punches. My eyes were red-rimmed, skin dull, lips bitten. My hair had that just-woke-up look that wasn’t intentional. I didn’t bother fixing it.
I grabbed a hoodie—his hoodie, I realized too late, one of the few things he’d left on my side of the room—and pulled it over my head anyway. It still smelled faintly of him. Like old cologne and mint gum. It was strange to me how a scent could have the power to make you feel, to make you burn.
For a moment, I pressed my face into the sleeve. Not to cry, just to remember. Just to feel something that wasn’t distance.
Then I pulled the hood up, wiped my palms on my jeans, and kept moving. Because that’s what I did—kept moving.
I couldn’t quit, couldn’t go home, and Amira was a hundred miles away at another school.
All I had was Dare. The guy who made me feel like I was almost reaching something I’d already lost.
How many times could a heart break over the same person before it stopped bothering to heal? I used to think the worst thing was losing him. But maybe it was realizing he never felt like he belonged to himself, either.
The dining hall hummed with low voices and the steady clink of silverware, but it all sounded distant, like I was underwater and everyone else was breathing air.
I sat alone at a table near the back, where the window’s smudged glass framed a view of the quad. I’d picked this spot for the light, not the company.
My sandwich sagged in the middle, untouched. The lettuce had wilted, the bread gone soft with condensation. It reminded me of how I felt—barely holding shape, a little too soft around the edges, like something that used to be fresh but sat out too long.
My phone chirped.
Amira:
Stop pretending like you’re busy. You’re not.
A second later, her video call popped up.
I propped my phone against the napkin dispenser and swiped to accept. My reflection blinked back for half a second—pink eyes, pale skin, mouth pulled tight—before Amira’s face filled the screen.
She was sprawled on her dorm bed in sweats, a clay mask cracking across her forehead, hair swept up in a messy bun that somehow looked intentional.
She squinted immediately. “Yikes. You look like a zombie that got dumped via text.”
I huffed a weak laugh. “Nice to see you too.”
Amira leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “Is that his hoodie?”
I tugged at the sleeves, trying to cover the cuffs. “Maybe.”
“Bitch, that hoodie is practically trauma-bonded to you.”
That’s when I laugh. The first one in days. It sounds rusty and a little hollow. “I like this hoodie.”
“You hate that hoodie.”
I don’t argue. She’s right.
“Tru,” she said, voice dipping into that older-sister tone that usually meant she was about to psychoanalyze me.
“It was cold,” I muttered.
She snorted. “It’s seventy-five degrees there.”
I tried for a smile. “Then I was nostalgic.”
Her expression softened, the teasing fading from her voice. “You’ve gotta stop doing this to yourself, babe. You’re not a rehab center for people who forget how to care.”
I looked out the window at the leaves skittering across the quad. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Sometimes.”
She sighed but didn’t push. That was the thing about Amira, she always knew when to stop pressing and just stay.
The silence stretched between us, comfortable in its own way, the kind that felt like being seen instead of interrogated.
Finally, she said, “You still going to that art mixer tonight?”
“Maybe.”
“Go. Meet new people. Talk to someone who doesn’t make you feel like you’re a backup plan.”
I smiled faintly. “You always this gentle, or am I just lucky?”
She grinned. “Oh, I’m roasting you in my head, don’t worry. You eating?” she asked, craning to see my tray.
“I was thinking about it.”
“That’s not eating. That’s depression plate staging. You’re surviving. Badly.”
“Thanks. It’s weird without you here.”
“I know,” she said softly. “It’s weird without you, too. This place is fine, but no one knows me like you do. No one else would dare let me FaceTime looking like this.”
“You look amazing,” I lied.
Amira smirked. “You’re terrible at that.” She leaned in closer and dropped her voice even lower, like she was telling me a secret. “Stop living in Dare’s gravitational field like your orbit doesn’t matter.”
I looked out the window at the soccer field in the distance. He wasn’t out there today. Maybe that was worse.
“What if I forget how to want something else?”
“You won’t,” she said. “You’ll remember. As soon as you let yourself want something better.”
The thought of wanting anything just felt exhausting. People hurt you. People disappoint you. People betray your trust. Fathers, even best friends. Even brothers.
“I gotta go. We’ll talk again this week,” I assured her before ending the call.
By the time I got back to the dorm, the sun was bleeding out behind the quad, smearing orange and pink across the windows. The room looked softer in that light, even with the mess of Dare’s cleats and my art supplies scattered over every surface.
It almost felt like home. Almost.
I dropped my bag and stood there for a long minute, trying to decide if going to the mixer was brave or just pathetic. Maybe both.
The closet door creaked when I opened it. My good jeans hung next to a wrinkled button-up I’d bought on sale for “occasions that required pretending I had my life together”. I ran a hand down the fabric and sighed. “Guess you’re up,” I muttered.
Getting dressed felt like gearing up for battle. One small decision after another that somehow mattered too much. Shirt tucked or untucked? Rolled sleeves or not? Sneakers or boots? Every reflection in the mirror stared back like a question I wasn’t sure how to answer.
Behind me, Dare’s desk light was still on.
His textbook lay open, but the page looked untouched.
I tried not to think about where he was, who he was with, or what he’d say if he saw me dressed like this.
Probably something cutting but half-smiling.
Probably the kind of teasing that used to make my stomach flip in good ways.
I straightened the collar again, trying to steady my hands. My chest felt tight, too much heart for such a small space.
At the last second, I reached for my sketchbook. Not the one full of memories, the other one—the clean one. The one that didn’t ache when I opened it. I tucked it under my arm like armor.
The hallway outside buzzed with the noise of laughter, doors slamming, and the sound of someone sprinting down the stairs. I hesitated at the threshold.
Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I stepped into the noise, into the night air that held the promise of possibilities instead of loneliness.
Maybe Amira was right. It was time to stop orbiting someone who wasn’t looking back.
Still, as I crossed the quad toward the art building, I caught myself glancing at the soccer field. Empty now, but I could almost picture him there, under the floodlights, all motion and fire.
I tore my gaze away and kept walking.
The party buzzed with soft jazz, laughter, and the scent of wine that probably cost less than the plastic cups it was poured into.
I stuck with ginger ale and lime. Strings of Edison bulbs zigzagged across the studio ceiling, throwing everything into a warm, forgiving glow.
For once, I didn’t feel like he was intruding. I just… belonged.
Clusters of students lounged against easels and display tables, their conversations centered around paint formulas, internships, and gallery gossip.
Someone from my sculpture class waved me over and introduced me around.
Faces blurred into a whirl of names and colors.
A girl in overalls complimented my sketches.
A senior critiqued my shading technique, but in a way that felt almost like praise.
The air buzzed with potential, possibility, and a dozen new beginnings waiting to be drawn.
Brian found me halfway through a story about a disastrous still-life assignment, grinning like he’d been looking for me. He handed me a cup of cheap sangria and leaned close enough that I could smell the faint sweetness of it on his breath.
“You clean up nice,” he teased. “Didn’t take you for the ‘button-up and brood’ type.”
I shrugged. “Didn’t peg myself for it either.”
We talked about art and professors and about nothing, really.
Brian was funny in a disarming way, the kind of person who could make small talk feel like a secret.
When he laughed, he leaned in just enough that I could feel the warmth of it.
And for the first time in months, I didn’t feel like I was watching life happen from behind glass.
By the end of the night, Brian offered to walk me back.
The campus was quiet, slick with dew. Our footsteps echoed in the quiet between lamplight and shadow, and at the dorm steps, Brian hesitated.
Hands in his pockets. A hopeful tilt to his mouth.
I recognized the look, the quiet ask for something more.
“I had a good time,” he murmured.
For a second, I almost considered saying yes. Almost let the night end in a way that would’ve felt good, or at least easy. But something inside me held still. The parts of me I was still trying to recover. Pieces I wasn’t ready to hand over yet.
“Thanks for walking me,” I said.
Brian’s smile dimmed, then softened. “Anytime.”
When the door closed behind me, I leaned against it, heartbeat still uneven. I wasn’t ready yet—not to be touched, not to be kissed. But for the first time, I wanted to believe I might be someday. And that felt like progress.
The faint hum of Dare’s laptop fan was the only sound when I got to the room, and even that felt too loud.
Stripping off my shirt, I tossed it in the laundry bag and changed my slacks for sweats.
I reached under my pillow for the journal, my oldest secret.
The cover was soft and worn, the pages bent like an old map I’d folded many times.
Every entry was a conversation I’d been too scared to have out loud.
My ink-stained confessions. Quiet attempts to hold on to a version of Dare that probably never existed.
Tonight, the pen felt heavier in my hand. I didn’t write to him this time. I wrote to myself.
You did your best.
You loved him without asking for anything back.
That doesn’t make you pathetic. It makes you brave.
It’s okay to stop waiting for the version of him that loved you back.
I stared at the words until the ink dried, until I almost believed them. Then I closed the journal and pressed it to my chest like a bandage, or maybe a shield. My eyes burned, but no tears came. Just the ache of trying to make peace with the truth: maybe I’d never get the ending I’d imagined.
The door creaked open. I froze, sliding the journal under my pillow.
Dare stepped inside, the hallway light catching the edge of his jaw before he kicked the door shut. He didn’t look at me, just shrugged off his jacket and peeled off his shirt, muscles shifting under the light.
He yawned like he’d had the best night of his life while I’d been here trying to forget him.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said.
“I wasn’t asleep.”
He glanced over, eyes flicking across my face. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” I muttered. “Means a lot coming from you.”
The ghost of a smirk. Then he climbed into bed, turning away. The air felt heavier with every breath. Every time I tried to let him go, he made a liar out of me just by being here.
I buried my face in the pillow, fighting the urge to say something, anything. I might’ve made it to sleep if not for the quiet sigh he let out—a soft, tired sound that touched something in me. He wasn’t supposed to sound broken too.
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
“Do you even remember the last time you were honest with me?”
His breath caught, followed by silence.
“Because I do,” I whispered. “It was the night in the closet.”
He turned toward me, voice low. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” I said, sitting up, “what’s not fair is how you look me in the eye every day like you didn’t wreck me. What’s not fair is watching you pretend to be someone else while I’ve spent years picking up the pieces you left behind.”
His jaw clenched. Even in the dark, I could see the tension in his silhouette.
“I never asked you to—”
“No. You just disappeared. And when you came back, all you did was punish me for wanting you.”
He sat up, the streetlight slicing across his face. “I didn’t know how to want you back,” he said finally. “Still don’t.”
Something inside me folded in on itself, crushing inward like a building giving way to its own weight.
And maybe it wasn’t a confession. Maybe it was just another excuse.
But it’s the closest he’s ever come to telling me the truth.
I lie back down, curling onto my side. Behind me, the mattress shifted.
Quiet breathing. A pause as if he was deciding whether or not to speak again.
“I don’t want this life anymore. I’m tired of pretending—about school, my dad, all of it. I don’t even know who I’d be without it. But I think you’d know. Or could help me figure it out.”
It gutted me. Because he was right. I could. But it wasn’t my job to save him from himself. Amira pointed out that I wasn’t a rehab clinic.
So I whispered, “Okay.”
And just like that, he made a liar of me again.