Chapter 38
DARE
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder. I think it just makes the silence louder.
There was toothpaste in the sink again, but it wasn’t Tru’s.
The guy I was sharing the dorm with left the bathroom a mess—music too loud, towels soured and spread across the floor as offerings to mildew. The worst part? There wasn’t a hoodie waiting on my chair with Tru’s scent clinging to it. Just space. Just silence.
I checked my phone before brushing my teeth, and again after. Still nothing. Not that I expected anything yet, it was too early. But I looked anyway, hoping something might’ve slipped through while I was asleep. Our last text thread glowed up at me.
Tru:
Send me a picture when you get there. I want to see you in that staff shirt.
Only if you promise not to jerk off to it.
He’d sent the tongue emoji. I sent the peach.
Now my screen was blank. Just that stupid bubble background and my own reflection staring back.
I tugged on the navy staff polo, finger-combed my hair, and left before I could change my mind.
The building smelled of fresh paint and floor wax, proof that someone cared. It was small, just three offices, a main room, a kitchen, and a fenced-in concrete court out back, but it buzzed with energy that made me stand up straighter.
Maya, the director, handed me a clipboard with the day’s schedule, smirking like she already knew I’d memorized it.
“First-timer, go easy on yourself,” she said. “You’re not saving the world in a day.”
“Why not?” I grinned. “Feels like a solid goal.”
She laughed and waved me toward the rec room.
There were twelve kids today, too-cool middle schoolers and shy high schoolers who pretended they didn’t care but hovered close every time I demonstrated something.
We started with a stretching workshop, then drills.
Kenny, small and jittery, asked if we could do ball control instead. Said he wanted to “stop sucking”.
I told him I’d practiced so much I could juggle a sock. He didn’t believe me, so I proved it. The room exploded when I landed the last flick into the laundry basket by the door. The noise hit me in the chest. It felt like flying.
After drills, I helped a few of the older kids write bios for their team funding applications. One of them didn’t know how to phrase, “I live with my aunt now because my mom’s not around.” So we talked about truth and power, and how to find words that honored both.
I felt out of my element. I grew up in a nice house in an affluent suburb.
My dad drove a brand new SUV. Every season, I started out with new cleats and soccer equipment.
My bedroom was filled with game consoles and the newest electronics, and my clothes were name-brand.
Imposter syndrome was real, and the irony of wanting to be less just to fit in here would almost be funny, except nothing about these kids' lives and what they lacked was remotely funny.
That was why I needed to connect with them, because maybe connection was the one thing I could give.
I sat on the curb behind the building, staff shirt damp with sweat and effort, and tried to remember how to feel grateful without wanting to share it with him.
Then I checked my phone. Still nothing. No missed calls. No rooftop selfie. No “miss your face”—just fingerprints and silence.
I opened my notes app and typed:
Today, a kid said he wanted to stop sucking. I get it. I want to stop aching.
Then I deleted it before I hit save.
Jackson, my new roommate, had brought a microwave. I heated up leftovers, something beige and soupy from a container labeled steal this and die – Tru.
I left him a sticky note back: You said that last time and I’m still breathing.
It was dumb. But pretending he might see it made me feel less alone.
The dorm building was half-empty now. Finals were over. The halls felt hollow without Tru’s playlists bleeding through the walls, without the scent of cranberry tea, without the blond dork “accidentally” falling asleep on my shoulder.
I tried to read and failed. Tried to text him but backspaced six drafts. Checked his location, felt pathetic, and checked again anyway.
At nine, I FaceTimed him, but there was no answer. I didn’t leave a voicemail, just hung up before it rang through.
Instead, I laced up and jogged to the park. The air was thick with June heat, heavy enough to swallow sound. My legs ached from drills, but I kept going, lap after lap, until the ache turned into something else.
After the fifth lap, I sat on the bleachers and texted:
You okay?
No reply.
I tilted my head back. The stars looked farther away than they did yesterday. My throat tightened with something dangerously close to grief. Tru said it was just a summer. Said he wouldn’t disappear.
But I didn’t know how to do this without him here to prove it.
By the time my breathing evened out, my thumbs hovered over the phone again, ready to text something else—something needy, something stupid. I didn’t send it.
I just sat there, staring at the screen until the battery blinked low and my eyes burned. Eventually, I let my head drop, the metal bleacher cool against my spine.
By the time I got back to the dorm, my legs were jelly and my lungs burned. I showered, dropped into bed, and prayed exhaustion would knock me out before the worry did.
No such luck.
The second I closed my eyes, it caught me—the panic, the missing, the fear.
And then I was walking the halls of our high school.
Lockers clanged. Sneakers squeaked. The air smelled like dust and pencil shavings. I passed the lab, the gym, and the stairs where we used to eat lunch when it rained. Everything looked washed out, devoid of color and life.
Then I heard it—Tru’s laugh. Clear. Close. It tugged something deep inside me.
I followed it past the art room.
He stood in front of our freshman lockers, wearing a denim jacket, with long bangs and his tongue between his teeth as he flipped through his sketchpad. I didn’t need to see the page to know it was me.
“Tru?” I said.
He didn’t look up. Didn’t hear me.
I stepped closer. “Hey. I miss you.”
Still nothing. I reached out, touched his shoulder.
He turned slowly, smiling like it hurt. “You said you’d follow me anywhere,” he whispered.
“I meant it.”
“But you didn’t.” His voice fractured. The hallway blurred behind him, color dripping like wet paint. “You never came.”
I grabbed his wrist, desperate. “Wait—Tru, I’m trying.”
He shook his head. “Trying doesn’t always mean enough.”
Then he started to fade—first the color, then the shape—until all that was left was light.
“No—wait—”
I jolted awake, mouth dry, shirt clinging to my back. The dorm was dark except for the blinking light on my phone—one new text.
Tru:
Sorry I missed you. Today was wild. I’ll call tomorrow, promise. Miss you.
I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. In. Out. Rinse. Repeat. It wasn’t enough to steady the pounding in my chest, but it was something.
The phone buzzed again just after midnight. I was already awake, staring at the ceiling like it might give me answers. I answered without checking the screen.
“Hey,” I said, voice rough.
Tru’s voice was soft. “Hey, you. Did I wake you?”
“No.” I paused. “You almost didn’t call.”
The ache in my chest spread like a bruise. “I had a weird dream,” I murmured.
“Yeah?”
“You were in it. We were back at school. You were drawing. I tried to talk to you, but you wouldn’t answer.”
Tru exhaled, slow and tired. “I hate that we’re doing this over the phone.”
“Then come home,” I said, only half-joking.
“I can’t. You know I can’t.”
“Yeah,” I said. I did. Didn’t mean I liked it. “I just… I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
Silence filled the line, not empty but full—of distance, of wanting, of everything we couldn’t reach through a phone.
Finally, I asked, “You still want this, right?”
“God, Dare. Yes.” His voice cracked. “Every damn second.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m losing you anyway?”
“You’re not.”
I waited for something more, something solid enough to believe in. All he said was, “Tell me about your day. Please. Just talk to me like we’re lying in your bed again.”
So I did. I told him about the kid who asked if I used to be cool, and how I lied and said yeah. About the girl who offered me her Capri Sun like it was sacred. About the kid who didn’t speak until I taught him a rainbow kick.
Tru laughed softly. “That’s the boy I fell in love with.”
My whole body went still. Like someone hit pause on the world and left only the echo of his words playing on loop.
He’d said it before, in ways I never let myself believe—but not like this. Not straight honesty, not impossible to misinterpret.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe. I’d spent years imagining this moment—building it up in my head to be lightning or fireworks or the kind of explosion people write songs about.
But the truth hit quieter than that.
A warm rush. A long exhale. Relief so big it almost felt like disappointment, like my body didn’t know what to do without the fear anymore.
I closed my eyes. My heart hurt in a way that almost felt holy. Dangerous. He’d just handed me something priceless and trusted me not to break it.
“Then don’t forget me,” I whispered.
“I couldn’t if I tried.”
Something in me twisted so sharply it felt like falling.