Chapter 8 #2
Freshman year in the library at 3 a.m., both of us slumped over textbooks and my head drooping onto his shoulder.
Waking up with my arm slung across his waist and his steady breathing warm against my neck.
I didn’t move. I didn’t want to. I stayed there until my arm went numb, telling myself it was just exhaustion and friendship… just comfortable.
All those late nights in the practice room, when Dmitri would lean over my shoulder to point at sheet music, his cheek so close to mine I could feel the heat off his skin. His voice low and patient, unraveling a chord progression while I forgot how to breathe.
The rooftop at sunset with my knee pressed deliberately against his under the table. The slow drag of his teeth as he took the garlic knot from my fingers, with our eyes locked like the rest of the world had gone quiet. How my pulse jumped when his tongue flicked the butter off his thumb.
Then the lake just a few days ago. Cold water closing over us, our chests colliding, and his hands on my shoulders like they belonged there. Thumbs stroking over my skin, and my whole body answering with a rush of heat before my brain could catch up.
I’ve never fallen so shamelessly into someone before. Never replayed a single moment with a girl the way I replay every second with him.
Frame by frame, sound by sound, feeling by feeling.
It’s not normal… and I think I’ve known that for a long time.
There’s no panic, not exactly, just bone-deep exhaustion from fighting something that’s already won. I don’t know what label fits, and right now I don’t care.
The rest of the day drags on with me deep in my head, and by the time I get back to my dorm and shower, I’m exhausted. Sleep should come easily, but every time I close my eyes, I get sucked back into my memories. Saturday is two days away, and I don’t know if I can wait that long.
I feel like I might die if I don’t see him.
The clock on my nightstand reads 1:47 a.m. when I finally give up on sleep. The room is dark except for the blue glow of my phone screen. I open our thread and scroll up to the pictures again, and my thumb hovers over the keyboard for a long minute before I type.
Still up?
The dots appear almost immediately.
Dmitri (1:48 A.M.)
Yeah. Couldn’t sleep. You?
Same. Brain won’t shut off.
Want to talk about it?
Not sure I can put it into words yet. Just… miss seeing your face.
The second I hit send, I drop the phone on my chest like it’s radioactive and stare at the ceiling, heart hammering so loud I swear the neighbors can hear it.
What the hell did I just do? I could’ve said “yeah, rough day” or “just work stuff” or literally anything safe.
Instead I handed him the soft underbelly of everything I’ve been trying not to feel.
Too much.
Too honest.
Too needy.
Too close to the thing I’ve been circling without naming.
Miss seeing your face.
God.
It sounds like a bad pickup line, except it’s true, and that makes it worse.
I miss the way his eyes crinkle when he’s trying not to laugh at my dumb jokes.
I miss the stupid little dimple that appears when he’s concentrating on sheet music.
I miss the way he looks at me sometimes like I’m the only person in the room who matters.
And I miss his face right now when the rest of the world is asleep and it’s just us awake and stupid enough to text each other like this.
The phone buzzes against my sternum, and I flinch like it shocked me.
Dmitri (1:51 A.M.)
I miss yours too.
Another photo arrives. This one is him in bed, propped against the headboard. He doesn’t have a shirt on, and his hair is messy from running his hands through it. The lamp on his nightstand casts soft light across his face, highlighting his tired eyes and small smile.
The kind that makes my chest ache.
Dmitri (1:51 A.M.)
There. Proof of life.
I swallow hard. My pulse is loud in my ears, because this moment feels like a tipping point. It feels like a precipice I’ve been teetering on for too long, and I have to decide if I’m going to pull back, or if I’m going to let gravity take me.
You look good. Too good for 2 a.m.
Dmitri (1:52 A.M.)
You’re not exactly hard on the eyes either.
You haven’t seen me right now.
Don’t need to see you to know.
I keep thinking about what you said at the lake.
About… my body.
The softness thing.
Fuck that sounds lame. Can I take it back?
No, you can’t take it back.
It’s just…
You said it like it wasn’t a flaw.
Because it isn’t.
You said it like you liked it.
Why wouldn’t I like it? It’s part of you.
I meant every word.
You weren’t just being nice?
Making me feel better because you were standing over there looking perfect?
Fuck, I don’t know what I’m saying.
Ignore me, it’s late.
I’m far from perfect, Eric.
And I don’t say things I don’t mean.
Especially not to you.
My chest aches in a good, sweet way, and I have to blink hard a few times to keep my vision clear. This conversation feels like we’re peeling back layers we’ve kept between us for years, and I’ve never felt so exposed.
I read his last message again. Especially not to you.
Four words that land like a promise. I’ve spent so long convincing myself compliments were things that people said to be nice or because they felt obligated, not because they meant them.
But Dmitri doesn’t do polite noise. He never has. When he says something, it’s deliberate and measured. It’s true.
It’s stupid how much that stuck with me.
Dmitri (1:58 A.M.)
Not stupid. You’re allowed to hear it.
And you’re allowed to believe it.
I’m trying. It’s just… loud in my head right now.
I know.
You don’t have to figure it all out tonight. Or tomorrow. Or even Saturday, or next week, or next fucking year.
I’m here either way.
Promise?
Promise.
Can you send another one? Just… need to see you right now.
Needy tonight, huh?
Yeah. Guilty.
A few seconds pass, then another photo pops up.
It’s the same setup, but now he’s tilted his head slightly.
His eyes are softer and his smile a little wider.
One hand is resting on the pillow next to him, palm up and fingers loosely curled like he’s idly waiting for something—or someone—to fill the space.
Dmitri (2:00 A.M.)
Better?
Yeah. A lot better.
That pillow looks lonely.
It’s been complaining all night. Keeps saying it’s cold.
Poor thing.
Maybe it needs company.
Maybe it does. I’ll tell it to be patient.
Saturday feels too far away.
I know. But it’s coming.
Try to sleep, okay? I’ll keep my volume up. Text me if you need me.
Okay. Night, D.
Night. Sweet dreams.
I set the phone down and roll onto my side, curling around the ache in my chest. The photo is still open on my screen—him smiling and his hand on the pillow like it’s casually waiting for me to decide if I want to fill that space.
I don’t close it. I just lie there in the dark, breathing slow and letting the quiet certainty settle deeper.
I’m not straight.
He’s probably known that for a long time.
And he’s been waiting for me to catch up.