Chapter 9 #2
Then Joel lowers the guitar, shifting on the stool.
He takes a breath, running a hand through his messy, too-long hair.
And then—
Then he smiles.
“Hey, Jessica,” he says, voice warm, smooth.
My stomach drops.
I can’t move.
I can’t breathe.
He’s still smiling, turning just slightly in his seat—just enough for me to realize...
He wasn’t looking at me at all.
He was looking past me.
Straight at Jessica Carson.
And then—
“Would you wanna go to prom with me?”
The world tilts.
There’s a moment—a brief, brutal moment—where my brain refuses to process what just happened.
Because it doesn’t make sense.
Because this song—my song—was supposed to be ours. It was supposed to be private.
And now?
Now Jessica is laughing, giggling, her hands flying to her mouth like she’s in a goddamn romance movie.
Now the entire auditorium is watching, waiting for her to answer.
Now my heart is breaking, splintering right there in my chest, because he never meant it for me at all.
I want to move. Want to turn around and walk away before I have to witness any more of this train wreck.
But I can’t.
I just stand there, frozen in place, as Jessica throws herself into his arms.
And Joel—Joel grins like he just won the lottery.
Like this was always about her.
Like I was never even part of the story.
Like I never existed.
The realization is slow and excruciating.
I gave him this.
And he gave it away.
My breath catches. The auditorium fades. The crowd vanishes.
And then—
I wake up.
My chest is tight, my pulse hammering against my ribs. For a few seconds, I can’t move.
My skin feels too hot. My sheets? Suffocating. I kick them off, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and press my bare feet into the floor, trying to ground myself.
Just a dream. Just a stupid dream.
But it’s not, is it? It’s a memory.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s too late—the past is unspooling whether I want it to or not.
After that day, I stopped answering his texts.
Joel had no idea why.
He thought it was just about the song—thought I was just mad that he played it without asking. And sure, that was part of it. But it wasn’t the real reason.
The real reason was that I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t sit next to him, couldn’t watch him pluck at the guitar strings like nothing had changed—like the whole world hadn’t just caved in on me.
Because he didn’t know. He didn’t know what he took from me.
I remember the way his brows furrowed in confusion when I told him I was busy and to go away.
How he tried again the next day. And the next. And the next.
Because Joel was always at our house. Always around.
When Ethan was busy, he hung out with me. Not because he had to, but because it was better than being at his own house, dealing with his parents’ divorce, pretending it wasn’t breaking him in half.
I was his backup person. His in-between. His safe place.
And I—stupid, stupid me—let myself believe I was something more.
But after that night? I snapped my shell shut. I was colder. Sharper. Shorter. I had to be.
I cut him off with sarcastic jabs and thinly veiled irritation. I stopped writing. I stopped singing.
I stopped being the girl he knew.
And when he looked at me—really looked at me—he saw the difference.
I’ll never forget the way his face fell the last time he asked if I wanted to work on a new song. The way he stared at me like I was a stranger. Like he couldn’t figure out what he’d done to make me hate him.
And I never told him.
Never told him that he was the song.
Never told him that he was the heartbreak.
Never told him that every time he smiled at me like nothing was wrong, it felt like a knife to the ribs.
So he stopped asking.
And I stopped caring.
Or at least, I tried.
I drag my hands through my hair, exhaling slowly. Years. It’s been years.
I should be over this. I am over this.
And yet—
The stupid envelope comes to mind through the tiny crack in my already vulnerable shield.
No.
I will not go digging up the past.
Instead, I close my eyes as tight as I can.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
I can sleep. I can move on. I can—
I don’t realize I’ve gotten out of bed until I’m already standing in the doorway.
My office is dark, except for the faint glow of my monitor in sleep mode, pulsing like a quiet heartbeat. My chair is tucked in, my desk neat—except for the drawer.
The drawer.
The one I shoved shut the last time I let myself get too close to this mess.
But suddenly, my fingers itch. My breath is still uneven. My body is still running too hot, the ghosts of old memories simmering under my skin.
And I know exactly what’s inside.
Waiting.
I stare at it, at the handle, at the stupid pull that would take all of two seconds to slide open. My hand hovers, hesitation tightening in my chest.
I could read it. I could finally see whatever bullshit excuse he tried to give me.
But what if… what if it changes nothing?
Or worse—what if it changes everything?
My throat tightens. My fingers curl into a fist, shaking slightly at my side.
No.
Not now. Not ever.
I’m not that girl anymore.
My breath catches in my throat, but I rip my gaze away, spin on my heel, and march straight back to my bedroom.
And if I slam my door shut behind me?
That’s no one’s business but mine.