Chapter 26
DARE
Some part of me thought we’d turned a corner. Now I’m wondering if it was just a dead end.
I didn’t expect him to fall into my arms or cry on my shoulder. I didn’t even expect forgiveness. But I thought… something.
I thought if I admitted that I was lost—if I said those words out loud, bared the smallest piece of myself—he’d take the chance to say something back. Maybe not a reconciliation. Just a nudge. A sign. Anything.
But he didn’t.
The next day, Tru didn’t mention our conversation. Didn’t bring up the moment I told him he was the only person who could help me figure out who I really was. Didn’t act like anything had happened at all.
So what else was I supposed to think? I gave him the ball, and he never passed it back. If silence was an answer, I guess I got mine.
Now I was stuck here in this dorm room that smelled like stinky sneakers and his cologne, trying not to notice the quiet between us. Tru didn’t even look at me when he walked in, just tossed his bag on the chair and brushed his teeth like I wasn’t there.
I could’ve sworn something had shifted. A softness. A kind of hope. Something old and familiar sparking in his eyes. But maybe that was just me, wanting too much, seeing past versions of us in the dark. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Hope was a dangerous thing to feel around Truen Jameson.
He’d probably told Amira everything. Maybe they’d even laughed about it. I could almost hear her saying, “Can you believe Dare actually said that?”
My jaw tightened as I slammed a drawer harder than I meant to. If he wanted to pretend it never happened, fine. Let him.
I didn’t care. Not really.
Only—I did. And that was the worst part.
I dragged a hand through my hair, pacing the narrow strip of floor between our beds. His side was neat. His bed made. Like he was already erasing the proof we ever lived in the same space. That we’d ever mattered to each other at all.
Maybe I’d read too much into the way he looked at me in the moonlight, like he still saw something worth saving.
I thought I’d left the door open, just a crack.
Enough for him to walk through if he wanted.
But days passed. Then a week. And all I got was Tru acting normal. Too normal. Friendly, even.
And maybe I should’ve been used to that. To his silence. To the way he built walls instead of bridges. But this time, it felt personal. He heard every word I said that night… and decided I wasn’t worth the risk.
My stomach clenched as I kicked my sneakers off, one landing sideways near his desk. Good. Let it stay there. Petty, sure, but pettiness was easier than pain.
I sat on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, and told myself I was over it. But my chest still tightened when I heard his laugh from down the hall. Someone else was getting the soft part of him I used to know. The part I still craved. The part I thought could save me.
I wished the cost of his friendship was something I could afford to pay.
I scrubbed my hands over my face, tired of the noise in my head. I’d given him a moment—let him see me, raw and unfiltered—and he looked away. That’s what hurt most. Not the silence. The choice.
My anger blinded me to the fact that Tru spent years waiting on me, while I’d spent less than a week. But I couldn’t keep playing the fool in a story I never asked to be part of.
I screamed into the void, “Fuck you, Tru!” Then shoved off the bed and grabbed the nearest book, slamming it shut before tossing it onto my desk. The sound wasn’t half as satisfying as I wanted it to be.
I told myself I was done waiting. Done hoping. Done making space in my life for someone who didn’t want to be in it.
Tru had his chance, and he walked away.
So, it was time I did, too.
The dorm felt quiet and empty without him, a mausoleum of memories.
Tru was out again. Probably with him, the guy who kept showing up in all the wrong places. The one who made Tru subconsciously lick his lips and throw out flirty smiles. The one who didn’t know him. Not really. Not like I did.
I tossed my keys onto the desk and started to pace.
I hadn’t meant to look for it, but once the thought entered my head, I couldn’t erase it.
The journal was still tucked under his pillow, in the same spot it had always been, like he wanted it close because it mattered.
I told myself I just wanted to see what he was writing now. Wanted proof that he still thought about me, that I was still in his head, still a priority to at least one person on this godforsaken earth.
The thick black notebook was heavier than I remembered. The weight of truth. My hands didn’t shake, but they felt stiff, like something inside me was about to break. It wasn’t mine. I knew that. But so much of what lived inside it was.
Last time was supposed to be a fluke. I’d been pissed, curious, caught off guard. But now? Now I was just desperate.
I flipped to the back—nothing. Then, to the middle, the same loops of familiar handwriting. Pages addressed to me. Every one of them was a confession.
More pages. More entries. Some newer than before. All still written to me. Some were light, just sketches, random jokes, lyrics. But then they turned darker.
I think I miss him more than I hate him.
I keep remembering the way he used to look at me, before he started looking through me.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m still in love with him, or just in love with the idea of who we used to be.
My pulse slowed as I reached the most recent entry. It wasn’t for me. And a weight dropped straight through my stomach.
It was to himself. Just a few quiet lines. Words of closure. Of letting go.
You did your best. You loved him without asking for anything back. That doesn’t make you pathetic. That makes you brave. It’s okay to stop waiting for the version of him that loved you back.
That was it. No more entries to me. None in weeks. Maybe longer.
I stared at the page, willing it to change. Wanting something—anything—that proved I still lived in that head of his, in that heart. But it was over. He’d stopped. Tru had moved on.
I slammed the book shut harder than I meant to, hoping I could crush the truth right out of it. My throat burned, and my chest felt tight and hollow all at once.
I’d never met anyone who wore their name like a damn prophecy, until Truen. Too good. Too honest. Too far out of reach. Like fate branded him from birth to be better than the rest of us.
I threw the journal onto his bed like it had offended me—like he had—and sat down hard on my own mattress, burying my face in my hands. It was easier to pretend I hadn’t set all this in motion with a goddamn kiss and a coward’s silence.
He was supposed to keep loving me in secret. Keep chasing something that hurts. Something impossible.
Because I wasn’t ready to let go. I wasn’t ready for him to be okay, at least not without me.
And it killed me that I’d wanted so badly to find proof he was still stuck on me… only to find proof he wasn’t.
For the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel angry. I just felt abandoned. But hadn’t I abandoned him first? God, we were so fucked up, our entire history built on dares we were too young to understand and silences we were too scared to break.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, fists clenched tight like I could wring the poison out of myself. It wasn’t jealousy. Not really. It was grief. Self-hatred twisted into a thousand different shapes.
I hated that I needed him to keep loving me.
I hated that I’d made it impossible for him to say it out loud. That I’d taken everything he had to give and fed it to the silence between us.
I hated how badly I wanted to be loved by someone I couldn’t let myself have.
Because this fucked-up mess between us was the only version of Tru I’d ever let myself touch—the scraps. The echo of what could’ve been. And he deserved so much more.
I’d never kiss him again. Never hold him. Never get to be his.
In fact, I’d repeat every mistake I’ve ever made with him. To feel his lips on mine again, no matter the outcome, would be totally worthwhile. His kiss was worth every consequence I’ve ever suffered.
The words slithered in like they’d been waiting there all along, quiet and cruel. He’s courageous. I’m a goddamn coward.
And I guessed that’s what cowards did: sit in the dark, longing for a life they were too afraid to live.
I didn’t even hear Tru come in until the door clicked shut.
He froze. I froze. The journal was still on his bed. It might as well have been glowing red, a confession left in plain sight. His eyes dropped to it, then flicked up to me.
He didn’t say anything.
I glared at it like it had burned me. Pretending I hadn’t just been reading the parts of him he never meant me to see.
“What?” I snapped, because anger was easier than guilt.
He didn’t answer, just grabbed the journal and slid it back under his pillow.
“Maybe stop writing shit down if you don’t want people to find it,” I said.
His jaw tightened. “Maybe stop going through my stuff if you don’t want to be the asshole you keep pretending not to be.”
The words stung. I pretended they didn’t. Before I could say something worse, I stormed out. Before I begged him to keep writing to me. Before I admitted I liked reading it.
Before I admitted that those pages felt more honest than anything I’d said out loud in years.
And that scared the hell out of me.
The hallway light hit me like a slap, too bright after the dark of our room. I didn’t even know where I was going, just that I had to move before I did something stupid, like turn around and apologize for everything I didn’t mean to say.
The air smelled of burned popcorn and cheap detergent. Someone down the hall was laughing loudly, carefree, and the sound twisted something in my gut. I used to laugh like that. With him.
My feet carried me to the stairwell before my brain caught up. I sat on the cold concrete steps and pressed my palms against my knees until the sting grounded me. I could still hear his voice, the edge in it when he told me off. And damn if he wasn’t right.
I was the asshole. The coward. The one afraid to love what was right in front of him.
A door opened somewhere above me. Footsteps echoed down the hall. For a second, I thought—hoped—it was him. That he’d follow, say something, anything. But the steps faded in the other direction, and all that was left was the hum of the building and my own pulse pounding in my ears.
I leaned my head back against the wall, closing my eyes. I wanted to be angry at him for shutting me out. But the truth was, he wasn’t the one running.
I was.
Tru had learned how to let go, and I still didn’t know how to hold on without hurting us both.
Every time he reached for me, I pulled away. This time, I reached back, and it was too late. We kept missing each other by inches and years, like the universe was playing some cruel joke neither of us could stop laughing through.
I dragged a hand down my face, the weight of it all pressing behind my eyes. Maybe this was what we deserved—me, drowning in guilt; him, finally learning how to breathe without me. Maybe that was the only way either of us ever got free.
And yet, even knowing that, I still wanted to turn around. Still wanted to go back into that room, crawl into the quiet beside him, and tell him I was sorry for every goddamn thing I broke before I ever dared to hold it.