Josh - 19 years old
. . .
I’m nineteen, drowning in a UCLA hoodie that smells like regret and In-N-Out, staring at my phone like it’s a live grenade.
It’s the day after the first Friendsgiving post-high-school, and I’m back in my dorm, the walls closing in with posters of surf spots I haven’t hit yet and a cactus named Spike who’s judging me harder than my mom.
The group chat’s blowing up—Jack sending memes of turkeys with abs, Beth posting a photo of her “artistic” cranberry sauce that looks like a murder scene, Ainsley and Pete making heart eyes at each other in every selfie.
Kait’s in there too, her messages a mix of miss you guys and Josh, call me.
I’ve left every single one on read. My call log’s a graveyard of her missed calls, each one a punch to the gut.
I’m the world’s biggest asshole, and I know it.
It’s been three months since graduation night at the Pump House, when we were eighteen and invincible, pinky-swearing under the bleachers with peach schnapps burning our throats and Gwen Stefani blasting like a battle cry.
Kait was my girl—my Jamison—her laugh in my ear, her hand in mine, her bikini leaving tan lines I memorized like a roadmap.
We promised forever, quarry nights, drive-ins, a future where nothing could touch us.
Then I got on a plane to LA, she went to Columbia, and three thousand miles turned our forever into a Post-it note that’s peeling at the edges.
I’m sprawled on my bunk, the bottom one because my roommate, Chad claimed the top.
My phone’s face-down on my chest, vibrating with another text I’m not ready to face.
The dorm’s a mess—empty Red Bull cans, a surfboard leaning against the wall like it’s mocking me for not using it, a pile of laundry that’s 90% flannel.
Spike’s wilting in his pot, probably because I forgot to water him again.
I’m a disaster, and Kait’s paying for it.
I pick up the phone, thumb hovering over her name. The last message she sent, two days ago, is still unread:
Josh, please. Just talk to me. I miss you.
My chest aches like I’ve been sucker-punched by a wave.
I want to call her, hear her voice, tell her about the party I bailed on because some girl named Mia tried to kiss me and I couldn’t stop thinking about Kait’s lips.
I want to book a flight to New York, blow my entire dining-hall budget, and show up at her dorm with tacos and apologies.
But I don’t. Because I’m a coward, and because three thousand miles isn’t just a number—it’s a wall.
I open my call log instead. Her name’s at the top, a string of missed calls going back weeks.
I let the last one go to voicemail on purpose, my thumb shaking as I hit ignore.
Her voicemail’s still there, unplayed, because I’m not strong enough to hear her voice crack.
I know what she’d say: Why are you doing this?
What did I do? And I wouldn’t have an answer, because it’s not her.
It’s me. It’s us. It’s the math that doesn’t add up.
I roll off the bunk, pace the three steps to the window, and stare at the campus quad.
It’s November in LA, which means it’s seventy degrees and everyone’s in shorts like it’s not supposed to be sweater weather.
Palm trees sway, some guy’s blasting Drake from a Bluetooth speaker, and I’m here, freezing in my hoodie because Vermont’s in my bones and Kait’s in my blood.
My phone buzzes again. Not Kait this time—Jack.
Dude. You alive? Or did Kait finally hire a hitman?
I snort, typing back before I can overthink it.
Alive. Barely. Hitman’s probably on his way.
You’re a dumbass. Call her.
Can’t. It’s done.
Jack sends a gif of a turkey exploding.
You’re killing me, Daniels.
He’s the only one I’m talking to about this.
The group chat’s too loud, too full of Beth’s sarcasm and Ainsley’s heart-eye emojis.
Jack gets it—he’s at UC Irvine, close enough for weekend bro-hangs, far enough to avoid the Kait-shaped hole in my life.
We got drunk on cheap beer last week, and I spilled my guts: how I love her, how I miss her, how I’m ghosting her because it’s the “right thing.” He called me a moron, threw a fry at my head, and said, “You’re nineteen, not a war criminal. Fix it.” I didn’t. I’m still not.
I flop back on the bed, staring at the ceiling crack that looks like a lightning bolt.
My brain’s a pinata, and guilt’s swinging the stick.
I keep telling myself this is noble—letting her go, setting her free, all that bullshit.
She’s at Columbia, killing it in her lit classes, probably charming professors with her fairy-tale theories.
I’m at UCLA, grinding through engineering problem sets, surfing when I can’t focus, pretending I’m not checking her Instagram stories like a stalker.
We can’t afford flights—my dining-hall job barely covers ramen, and her barista gig’s not much better.
FaceTime’s a joke when you’re crying over time zones and $12 airport sandwiches.
It’s not fair to her, tethering her to a guy who’s three thousand miles away, drowning in his own stupidity.
So I keep ignoring her. Texts, calls, the works.
I’m a ghost in my own life, haunting her from afar.
It’s been weeks since I replied, a curt busy with midterms that I know she saw through.
Her messages are getting shorter, sadder.
The last one before the please was a photo of her in Central Park, scarf up to her chin, captioned wish you were here.
I stared at it for an hour, then closed the app like a coward.
I roll over, punch my pillow so hard the seam splits. Spike glares from his pot. “Don’t judge me,” I mutter. He doesn’t care. He’s a cactus.
My phone buzzes again. Jack.
Beach. Now. Bring your board or I’m stealing your fries for life.
I grab my keys, my board, anything to outrun the guilt. The drive to Venice Beach is a blur—freeway, palm trees, Drake still stuck in my head. Jack’s waiting by the boardwalk, board under his arm, grinning like he didn’t just drag me out of my pity party.
“You look like shit,” he says, tossing me a beer from his cooler an hour later.
“Thanks, bro,” I say, catching it. We wax our boards, the ocean stretching out like it’s daring me to forget. The waves are decent, the sun’s low, and for a minute, I’m just a guy with his best friend, not a guy who’s torching his future.
We paddle out, the water cold enough to slap some sense into me.
Jack’s riding a wave, hooting like an idiot, and I’m trying to catch one, anything to drown out Kait’s voice in my head.
I wipe out—hard—my board smacking my ass, saltwater up my nose.
I surface, gasping, and Jack’s laughing so hard he nearly falls off his board.
“Smooth, Daniels!” he yells. “Kait would’ve nailed that!”
Her name’s a knife. I paddle over, floating next to him, the ocean rocking us like it’s trying to soothe a tantrum. “I’m doing the right thing,” I say, more to myself than him.
“Bullshit,” he says, splashing me. “You’re nineteen. You’re not saving the world by ghosting her. You’re just making her hate you.”
“I don’t want her to hate me,” I say, voice cracking. “I want her to be happy. She’s killing it in New York. I’m… here. Broke. Eating Chad’s leftover pizza crusts.”
Jack snorts. “You’re an idiot. She’s not happy. She’s texting me, asking if you’re dead. I’m one DM away from telling her you’re pining like a sad puppy.”
“Don’t,” I say, sharp. “Please.”
He sighs, paddling closer. “Look, man. I get it. Miles suck. Money sucks. But you’re letting her go without a fight. That’s not noble. That’s quitting.”
I don’t answer, just stare at the horizon where the sun’s bleeding orange into the water.
He’s right, and I hate it. I miss her so much it’s a physical ache—her laugh, her freckles, the way she stole my fries and my heart in the same bite.
I miss quarry nights, her head on my chest, John Mayer on the radio.
I miss the girl who made me believe in forever at eighteen.
But we’re young. Too young, maybe. She’s got Columbia, I’ve got UCLA, and the math doesn’t work.
Flights are $400 a pop, and my bank account’s crying.
FaceTime’s a band-aid on a bullet wound.
I’m doing this for her, letting her fly without me dragging her down.
Maybe in the future—when we’re not broke, not drowning in midterms, not kids pretending to be adults—we’ll have a shot. But not now.
I paddle back to shore, Jack trailing, the guilt heavier than my board. We collapse on the sand, beers cracked, the sky going dark. My phone’s in my bag, probably buzzing with another text I won’t answer. Jack’s quiet, for once, letting me stew.
“I miss her,” I say, voice low. “Every fucking day.”
“Then stop being a coward,” he says, not looking at me. “Or let her go for real. But this half-assed ghosting? It’s cruel.”
I don’t sleep that night. I’m back in the dorm, Chad snoring like a chainsaw, Spike judging me from his pot.
I open Kait’s contact, thumb hovering over call.
Her photo’s still there—us at the quarry, her in my flannel, grinning like we owned the world.
I want to hit dial, spill my guts, beg her to wait.
But I don’t. I lock the phone, shove it under my pillow, and stare at the ceiling until the sun comes up.
I’m doing the right thing. I have to be.
She’s better off without me holding her back.
We’re young, we’re dumb, and love’s not enough to bridge three thousand miles.
Maybe someday, when we’re not broke, not lost, we’ll find each other again.
But for now, I’m a ghost, and she’s the girl I’m letting go.
It’s killing me. But it’s for her.
I hope.