Chapter 39
TRU
I thought you found out who you were by who stood beside you. But it’s what you do when they’re not there that really shows you who you are.
The city smelled like burnt coffee and ambition, and for once, I felt like I belonged in the middle of it.
I hadn’t stopped smiling in three days—not since the campaign launch, not since my name showed up in the official pitch deck under Content & Strategy. It was small, barely a line, but it felt like my whole damn future.
I knew I should’ve missed him more. But every time I looked up at those skyscrapers or heard the subway rumble beneath my feet, I felt something I hadn’t in years—free.
I was blooming. That was the only word for it. The city was chaos and concrete and glitter and grit, and I was growing wild in the cracks. My mornings were loud, my days full. And if I didn’t slow down too long, I could almost forget what quiet used to feel like with him beside me.
Everyone here walked like they had somewhere better to be, and it made me want to earn my place in the crowd.
I took the long way to the office just to pass the street art murals in Bushwick.
My favorite was of two men, back-to-back, arms almost touching—one looking toward the skyline, the other looking back.
It killed me every time. I told myself it was because of the art, not because I knew what it felt like to stand that close and never touch.
Still, I thrived. Or at least, I told myself I did.
I did things I never would’ve done back home—pitched ideas, stayed late, grabbed coffee with coworkers who didn’t blink when I mentioned a boyfriend back in North Carolina.
I laughed too loudly in public. I wore nail polish on Thursdays just because.
And I met Jasper.
He was older than me. Confident. Not flirty, exactly, but easy to be around.
We were paired on a social impact campaign for LGBTQ+ youth in gaming, and he told me, “You’ve got a sharp eye.
You could really do something with this”.
His words sank like sunlight into my chest—warm, life-affirming, and hard to forget.
But at night, the shine always faded, because every night, Dare texted.
DARE: How was it today?
DARE: Did you eat?
DARE: I miss you
DARE: I miss you
DARE: I miss you
I stared at the screen until it blurred and typed:
Same.
Miss you too.
I didn’t tell him I’d gone hours without checking my phone. That I’d gone the whole day without thinking of him, too caught up in the rush. That I’d laughed at Jasper’s stupid story until my stomach hurt. That I’d loved it here today.
I sent a photo of the mural, the men almost touching. He didn’t ask what it meant.
Later, when the city slept, I crawled into the borrowed twin bed in my roommate’s overpriced apartment. I thought of Dare’s arms, his shoulders, the way he always smelled like clean laundry and summer sweat and home. The way he’d always waited until I fell asleep first, as if he was standing guard.
I closed my eyes and dreamed of him. Not the way he was now, desperate and trying, but the way he’d been when we first kissed in the dark.
My best friend. My other half. Easy. Free. Confident.
Before everything crashed and burned.
I didn’t call. I told myself it was because I was tired. Because it was late. Because he was probably asleep. Because it had only been a day. Two. Three.
But the truth was, I was afraid to hear his voice, afraid of what I’d feel, and even more afraid of what I wouldn’t.
We’d launched the webtoon that day. There was champagne in paper cups and Korean BBQ with the team. Jasper called it our little queer comic baby, and Bennett gave a toast that made everyone cheer.
I laughed so hard I got sauce on my shirt—for the second time that week—and didn’t even care.
We took pictures under the neon restaurant sign, with me wedged between Jasper’s arm around my waist and Bennett’s ridiculous grin. I posted the best one with three sparkles and a pride flag. It got more likes than anything I’d posted all year.
For a minute, I forgot the ache.
Jasper was the kind of guy who talked about his high school boyfriend like it was nothing. Who ordered extra just so everyone could try the scallion pancakes. Who flirted with the waiter and didn’t flinch when the waiter flirted back.
And I thought—not for the first time—what it would be like to be with someone like that.
Someone who didn’t ask me to hide.
Someone who didn’t panic at the word gay.
Someone who hadn’t once cut me out of his life just for loving him.
The walk to the subway was warm and heady with alcohol and June heat. Jasper walked close beside me. Too close.
“You looked really happy tonight,” he said. “Like… genuinely.”
“I am.”
I wasn’t lying, but the happiness felt slippery, like it could slide off if I stopped moving.
We reached the station steps, and he touched my arm lightly. Deliberately.
“Hey,” he said. “Can I—”
I knew what he was asking. I smiled, hesitated, then stepped back.
“Sorry,” I said softly. “I’m kind of… not there.”
He nodded, easy. “Fair enough.”
No drama. No guilt trip. Just a quick squeeze of my shoulder before he turned away.
I walked home alone. Again. The city shimmered around me, but I felt dull and unfinished, like I’d missed my cue in a scene I’d written myself.
I used to think soulmates were anchors. Turns out, they could drift too.
That night, I dreamed about Dare.
We were in middle school. The hallway smelled like floor cleaner and deodorant. My books slipped from my hands. Laughter echoed off the lockers—too loud, too many voices.
“Faggot,” someone muttered. I knew the voice.
His voice.
Dare shoved me. I stumbled into a locker, the edge biting into my shoulder.
My cheeks burned. I crouched to gather my stuff. My hands shook.
He walked away without looking back.
The hallway stretched, twisted, reshaped itself.
Now it was a high school party, a basement glowing with string lights. Music thumped through the floor. The air smelled like beer and cheap cologne. A dare spun through the air like a knife.
“Truth or dare?”
“Dare,” I said, my voice cracking.
“Kiss him.”
My heart sprinted. My palms sweated. I turned toward Dare.
He was right there, close enough to count the freckles across his nose. His lips parted just slightly.
I leaned in, and he jerked back. Hard.
“What the fuck, Tru?”
Everyone was staring, laughing, whispering.
“God, that’s disgusting,” he said. His face twisted, mean and embarrassed.
I shrank back, and the lights went out.
I was in my bedroom sophomore year. The space between us was a screen.
A blank text thread. One word unsent in the box: Why?
I sent it anyway. He never answered.
Days stretched into months. Seasons flickered by like film frames. Leaves fell. Snow drifted. I graduated. I moved. I started over.
He never answered.
And suddenly I was underwater, drowning in a silence that had lasted years.
I tried to swim up, to scream, but no sound came. Lungs burning, I thrashed toward the light. Dare’s face hovered above me, blurred and unreachable.
Then it wasn’t Dare. It was Jasper.
And then it was no one at all.
I woke at 4:17 a.m., sheets tangled, throat tight. The city still hummed outside, but in here, it was just me.
My phone glowed on the nightstand. Jasper’s goodnight text slid past beneath my thumb until I reached Dare’s name. No new messages.
The screen dimmed. I lay there, eyes open to the dark, and let the ache keep me company until morning.