Chapter 11 #3
None of them had pulled focus like this.
I started watching Theo the way an artist studies light. I became obsessed. The attraction wasn’t sexual, not then. It was awe threaded with yearning.
I wanted Theo to see me.
I wanted to matter to someone who never seemed to need anyone.
One afternoon, Gary went out to meet a friend. I stayed behind, sketching at the table. Theo was at the piano, working through an arrangement. He played the same line over and over, quiet, precise, adjusting something only he could hear.
“Are you always this driven?” I asked with a smile.
Theo glanced up. “Perfection’s a habit.”
“Then perfection sounds exhausting.”
Theo’s laugh tugged at my ribs. “It’s safer than chaos.”
I didn’t understand what the words meant, but it sounded as if there was a story under the words I wasn’t supposed to ask about.
Theo played another chord, then turned toward me. “You’ve got a good ear. Come here.” I stood and walked over to where Theo shifted on the piano bench, making space for me. “Sit.”
I complied and our shoulders brushed, the briefest connection but it felt like touching a live wire.
Theo hit a note. “Sing that.”
I did.
“Now this one.” Another note, lower.
We went back and forth—call and response, unspoken rhythm—until the air between us felt dense, charged.
When Theo finally stopped, I realised I’d been tense the whole time.
Theo smiled. “You’ve got instinct. Don’t overthink it.”
I nodded quickly. “Right. Got it.” I wished I could read Theo’s expression.
Theo stood. “Good work.” He started to move away.
Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “Do you ever get tired of being good at everything?”
Theo paused mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder. “Often,” he said. “Doesn’t stop me trying.”
And then he gave a brief, genuine smile, and my entire world tilted.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, replaying the way Theo’s voice had sounded when he’d said ‘You’ve got instinct.’ Not simply the words but the tone, warm and certain. I thought about Theo’s hands on the piano keys, steady and graceful.
The way his hair fell forward when he leaned in.
The clean scent of soap and coffee and something that made my skin prickle.
I shifted under the blanket, restless.
The realisation arrived slow and certain, like a song I’d always known but never sung aloud.
I wasn’t just admiring Theo.
I wanted him.
It wasn’t in the way my friends talked about wanting people. Sometimes that came across as a dare or a joke. This was quieter, deeper, a yearning that lived in the space between breath and voice.
Would he notice if I touched his hand? Could I do it without flinching? How would it feel to have someone look at me the way Theo looks at music?
I wanted to sing beside him and belong there.
And in that moment, I understood something else that should’ve scared me but didn’t.
I wasn’t straight.
I didn’t want girls, not really.
I wanted this.
I wanted Theo.
The next morning, everything looked the same and yet nothing did.
Gary was making toast, talking about plans for the day. Theo was scrolling on his phone, a mug in his hand. It was normal, ordinary.
Until Theo looked up and caught me looking at him.
The glance barely lasted a second, but in that instant, my body remembered everything from the night before—the heat, the ache, the way all my thoughts had suddenly become clear as crystal.
I looked away, my heart hammering. And when I summoned up enough nerve to look back, Theo appeared not to have noticed, or at least pretended not to. He sipped his coffee, calm as ever.
But between his brows sat the smallest crease.
I spent the rest of the morning sketching, trying to ignore the awareness burning through me, to leave it behind in a burst of creativity.
When I finished, I looked down at the page and froze.
It wasn’t the view from the window I’d meant to draw.
It was Theo, head bent, expression intent, light tracing his jawline.
I’d poured care, reverence, and longing into every line.
I stared at it for a long time before closing the sketchbook.
That was the day I knew.
Not because of what I saw, but because of how it made me feel, as though something inside me had clicked into place.
Theo Sinclair had become the measure by which I understood every other kind of wanting that came after.
A thing I would never admit to while there was breath in my body.
Present
If the last few days had taught me anything, it was that Theo and I were moving toward something neither of us knew how to name.
I inhaled, exhaled. I’d give Theo all the time and space he needed. I’d be patient. But I wouldn’t disappear. I wouldn’t fold myself smaller just because Theo had ghosts.
And I wouldn’t let this evening turn into distance that couldn’t be closed again.
Whatever had happened to Theo before—whoever had made him flinch at kindness—I would never be that person.
I looked toward Theo’s bedroom door, my throat tight.
I’m not giving up on you. I’m not going anywhere.
The door opened, and Theo stood there.
He swallowed. “Can we talk?”