Chapter 7 Almost a Voice #2
Evan's eyes sharpened at that, but he didn't comment. Just looked around my room with interest, taking in the photos tacked to every available wall surface, the camera equipment scattered across my desk, the general chaos of someone who'd never quite mastered the art of organization.
“It's not much,” I said, suddenly self-conscious about the unmade bed and the pile of clothes in the corner that I'd been meaning to deal with for weeks.
Evan shook his head and spoke without reaching for his notebook. “It's you.”
“Yeah,” I said, voice rougher than I'd intended. “I guess it is.”
We ended up sprawled across my bed like we owned the world, homework abandoned in favor of something that felt infinitely more important.
Evan had claimed the spot by the window, one arm tucked behind his head while he stared at the ceiling like it held answers to questions he'd never learned how to ask.
I'd taken the other side, close enough that if either of us moved wrong, we'd end up tangled together in ways that would probably short-circuit what was left of my brain.
The late afternoon light painted everything gold, turning my cramped room into something that felt almost magical. Like maybe this was what contentment looked like—two seventeen-year-old boys pretending the world outside didn't exist.
“I used to think small towns were where dreams went to die.” I said, voice pitched low because loud felt wrong in the amber quiet.
Evan made a sound that might have been amusement. “And now?”
“Now I think maybe they're where you figure out what's actually worth dreaming about.”
That earned me a sideways look, something soft and considering in his expression. “Very philosophical for a Tuesday afternoon.”
“I contain multitudes.” I grinned up at the ceiling. “Walt Whitman said that. Well, sort of. I'm paraphrasing.”
“I know who Walt Whitman is, city boy.”
The teasing in his voice made something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Shocking,” I shot back. “Here I thought you rural folk only read truck manuals and... I don't know, farming almanacs?”
“You're an ass.” But he was almost-smiling when he said it, the expression transforming his whole face.
“Yeah, but I'm a charming ass. There's a difference.”
We fell into comfortable silence after that, the kind that didn't need filling.
Outside, Hollow Pines was settling into evening—distant sounds of people heading home from work, the occasional car rumbling past, the eternal whisper of wind through pine trees that seemed to be this town's background soundtrack.
“Can I ask you something without you going all mysterious and brooding?” I said eventually.
Evan's eyebrow arched. “Depends on the question.”
“What's the weirdest thing about growing up here? And don't say the people—that's too easy.”
He was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. Then: “The way the forest talks.”
I turned to look at him, but his expression was serious, not like he was messing with me. “Talks how?”
“Not words. Just... sounds. Rustling when there's no wind. Footsteps when there's no one there. Like it's trying to tell you something important, but you don't speak the language.”
The way he said it made my skin prickle with awareness. There was truth in his voice, the kind that went deeper than imagination or teenage drama.
“Have you ever tried to learn?” I asked.
Evan's mouth quirked up at the corner. “Working on it.”
Another comfortable silence stretched between us, broken only by the distant sound of my parents moving around downstairs. Normal domestic sounds that felt strange after weeks of living in a place that seemed balanced on the edge of something cosmic.
“Your turn,” Evan said. “Weirdest thing about the city?”
“The loneliness,” I said without thinking, then immediately wished I could take it back. Too honest. Too revealing.
But Evan just nodded like he understood. “Sounds awful.”
“It was. All those people, all that noise, and somehow you could still feel completely invisible.” I picked at a loose thread on my comforter. “Like you were just taking up space that belonged to someone more important.”
“Not here, though.”
It wasn't really a question, but I answered anyway. “No. Not here.”
“Good.” Evan's voice carried a note of satisfaction that made something flutter behind my ribs. “You belong here.”
The simple declaration hit harder than any grand romantic gesture could have. Because this was Evan—careful, guarded Evan who chose his words like they cost him something—telling me I had a place in his world.
“Yeah,” I said, throat suddenly tight with emotion I wasn't ready to name. “I think I do.”
When he finally left that night, walking home through forest paths that seemed to welcome him like an old friend, I lay in the same spot on my bed and stared at the ceiling where his voice had painted pictures of a town that whispered secrets and boys who belonged to wild places.
Dad found me there ten minutes later, still staring out at the darkness.
“Good kid,” he said, settling beside me at the window. “Quiet, but strong. You can see it in the way he carries himself.”
“Yeah,” I said, voice rough with emotions I wasn't ready to examine. “He is.”
“You care about him.” It wasn't a question.
I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady if I tried to speak.
“Good,” Dad said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Everyone needs someone who sees them for who they really are. Looks like you two are lucky enough to have found that in each other.”
Evan did see me, saw past the sarcastic exterior and the restless energy to whatever was real underneath.
And I was starting to realize that I saw him too, saw the gentle heart beneath the careful silence, the strength that had nothing to do with physical power and everything to do with the courage it took to trust someone new.
I was falling for him. Had probably been falling for months without fully realizing it, drawn to his quiet intensity and the way he made me feel like I was worth knowing.
The knowledge should have terrified me. Should have sent me running in the opposite direction, because caring about someone that much was dangerous in ways I was only beginning to understand.
But as I lay in bed thinking about the sound of his laughter and the way his eyes had lit up when he'd finally trusted me with his truth, all I felt was grateful.