Track 9
JAKE
FOR THE LAST two months, Alana and I have met up almost every day without fail. Honestly, I hadn’t realized how often it had become—how easily I’ve folded her into my life.
Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings have always been spent training at the boxing gym, then home to shower and eat, but now I skip lunch. Instead, I meet Alana for an hour or two before her afternoon classes and my late-night shift at Donn’s, grabbing a bite wherever we have time for.
Tuesdays and Thursdays I take an early run before we have class together, and we usually meet at the coffee shop or the library after if she doesn’t have work.
Saturdays are now our laundry day, and yes, it’s exactly as it sounds.
We do laundry together, and it’s entirely my fault.
The first Saturday we didn’t have plans, I called her to find out what she was up to.
I didn’t know why, but the idea of not seeing her for a whole day didn’t sit right with me.
That should have sent off warning bells, and I’m sure it did, but like I had grown accustomed to doing, I ignored them completely.
“Hello,” she answered with a yawn, and I mentally placed her still in bed.
“What are you doing today?” I asked, my voice still groggy with sleep. It was barely 8 a.m. I was still in bed myself, a crumpled navy sheet barely covering me, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted to hear her voice before I heard anyone else’s.
“What day is it?” she asked sleepily.
“Saturday.”
“Hmm,” she hummed. “It’s laundry day.”
“That’s funny,” I said, looking over at my pile of neatly folded clean clothes. “For me, too.”
“Hilarious,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Wanna do laundry together?”
“Mmm, no. That seems intimate.”
My laugh came out rough. “Explain to me how laundry is intimate.”
“We’d see each other’s underwear.”
“I think context matters here.”
She was quiet for a moment, and I wondered if I’d won her over. “Yeah, still no.”
“Fine,” I huffed, working harder to persuade her. “I won’t bring my underwear.” Truthfully, I didn’t have anything to bring. Everything I owned was already washed, dried, and waiting to be put away. But she didn’t need to know that.
“I’m not worried about seeing your underwear. I don’t want you seeing mine.”
“Then I’ll close my eyes.”
I could almost hear her smile then.
“Fine,” she caved.
I stretched with a loud breath to hide my excitement. “See you in an hour?”
“Bring coffee,” was all she said.
And that’s how Saturday became laundry day.
Sundays were my favorite, though. She had an early shift at the café every week, but after, she was always down for anything.
Sitting on the couch and watching football, grabbing a slice of pizza, or ordering in Chinese.
Sometimes when we hung out, we didn’t even talk.
We just sat there in shared company, and it was… nice.
The consistency of it all didn’t give me enough time to notice how natural it felt to be around her.
Like when the sun shines for so long, you forget the storm you endured to reach it.
There was never enough space between days to notice her absence—or how much it would affect me when she wasn’t there.
Last week, an older woman stopped at our café table and smiled like she’d stumbled upon something she couldn’t unsee. “You two make such a beautiful couple,” she told us.
Alana’s cheeks flushed, and her shoulders stiffened. I smiled and went with it.
“Why, thank you, ma’am. That’s so kind of you to say.” I slid an arm around Alana and gave her my best doting-boyfriend grin. “It’s been what, six months, baby?”
Her lips twitched, her eyes sparking with the kind of mischief I was hoping for. “Seven,” she corrected softly. “And we’ve never been happier.”
Something in my chest twisted then. The woman cooed, said something about young love being beautiful and sacred. The words lodged under my ribs, sharp and heavy. Because for a second, I almost believed it—the idea that it could be real, that I could have this happy little life.
That thought scared the living hell out of me.
When the woman left, I dropped my arm from around Alana and redirected us to safer ground—school, schedules, anything that didn’t make my heart flutter. I retreated entirely, and just as quickly, her laughter vanished.
She didn’t text me the next day. Or the day after that. I told myself that was for the best. That maybe a little space was good for us.
The guilt, though? It wouldn’t let up. It sat heavy in my stomach like lead.
Because I knew it wasn’t her fault I was broken in ways I didn’t know how to fix; but I was shitting on her anyway because of it.
It was my fault for putting myself in that position in the first place.
A position I had sworn off ever being near again.
We’re meeting at the café again out of pure need for Stanley’s assignment.
I told myself I’ll keep my distance. No teasing.
No easy smiles. I stand in line telling myself won’t even buy her a coffee.
But when she walks in, those storm-blue eyes find mine, and the center of my chest does that stupid thing again, opening up in a way my head wanted it to remain closed.
I order her drink, feeling stupid for trying to avoid the gesture when it comes to me like muscle memory.
“Hey,” she says when I reach her at our go-to table. Her voice is softer than usual. Guarded.
“Hey,” I manage, trying not to sound like I’m apologizing for just existing. But I want to.
The silence stretches enough to notice. It’s not our norm.
It’s weighted. Awkward. She keeps her gaze low, opening her notebook, acting like she doesn’t notice my quiet, and I wonder if she can feel how hard I’m trying to not look at her.
To not let her see that I’ve already started missing her in a way I have no right to in the first place.
Sitting across from her, I can see how my hurt is leaking into her world.
I see it in the way her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes anymore.
How her gaze lost its gemstone sparkle that came with the laugh she’s no longer sharing.
I was trying to protect her from what I couldn’t give, but all I’ve done is make her pay for a wound she never gave me.
Her eyes remain on her book, pretending to focus on her notes. Completely unbothered. I watched her pen move, and something about the deliberate concentration in her brow hurts worse than it should. It's not that she’s cold. It’s that she’s protecting herself.
From me.
And I hate that I’m the reason she needs to.
I told myself I’d leave her alone, I’d focus on my own notes and keep this whatever-it-is from crossing the line again.
But the quiet between us isn’t peaceful—it’s whirring with everything unsaid about the way I gave her warmth and then pulled it away.
Every time she brushes her hair behind her ear, every soft exhale she lets slip, pulses under my skin.
I can’t take it.
“Alana,” I say quietly.
Her head lifts, just barely, her eyes never meeting mine. “Yeah?”
I swallow, wishing I had something better planned other than only saying her name. “You don’t have to…pretend, okay? With me, I mean.”
She blinks, looking up at me with only her eyes. “Pretend what?”
“That you’re okay with how I acted.” I drop my eyes to the table. “I know I made things weird the other day. I just—I didn’t mean to.”
For a second, she doesn’t answer. Then her pen rolls from her fingers, hitting the wood with a dull tap.
“You didn’t make things weird,” she says softly.
“You just…” She pauses, searching for words, and when her eyes land on mine, she huffs out a breath before she caves to the truth.
“Okay, you did.” I give her a sideways shadow of a grin, full of remorse and a bit of guilt. “It’s fine, though. Really. I get it.”
The honesty in her tone wrecks me. Because even though she’s not asking for one, she deserves an explanation.
But I can’t give her one. How can I explain that even though I like her and think about her often, that even though she has been the brightest part of my every day for the last couple months, I don’t want anything to do with it.
I don’t want anything to do with what comes after.
I don’t want anything close to the four-letter word I know will try to make its way through the ice wall of armor I’ve created for good reason.
So, instead, I give her the safest words I can manage, knowing they teeter between deception and honesty.
“I’ve just been tired lately,” I say, forcing a small smile.
She nods like she believes me, but I can see the hurt flash in her eyes before she looks away. The kind that doesn’t come from anger but disappointment. From caring when you wish you didn’t. From thinking you got close with someone, only to be shown you didn’t know them at all.
Her eyes fall to the table, tracing the rim of her cup as if it could give her something solid to hold on to.
My hand itches to reach across, take hers, and say something—anything—that could undo the hurt I saw flicker through her.
But all I can do is sit here, jaw tight, nails digging into the base of my palm. Muted.
She gives a small nod, more to herself than to me. “Yeah,” she says, almost under her breath. “I get that.”
That’s it. No bitterness. No sarcasm. Just quiet acceptance that somehow stings more than if she’d been angry.
For the rest of the hour, we work in silence. She keeps her focus fixed on the page, but I can tell she’s not truly present. Her foot bounces beneath the table, her eyes darting too quickly when I look her way. And I know it’s my fault.
Because she had opened me up, and I let her see just enough before I shut her out. I made her second-guess that warmth. I made her question whether it was safe to shine around me.
When she finally packs up, she smiles small and polite, the kind you give a stranger you’ll never see again, and it guts me.
“I’ll see you later, Jake,” she says softly.
“Yeah,” I respond, but she’s already walking away, the echo of her still with me long after she leaves the building.
I sit motionless, staring at the empty chair across from me, the untouched coffee I ordered for her growing cold.
Guilt and shame wash over me in waves. All I can think is how heartbreak doesn’t just happen once.
Sometimes, you end up breaking someone else with the pieces of your own shattered parts.
I can’t deny the way this girl has made me feel—the excitement that rolls in my gut with her smile, and the crazy way my stomach flips when she laughs.
I can’t ignore the burn that crept up my arm after wiping invisible ice cream from her lip, or how hollow this space now feels, like someone has turned the dimmer down on a light I didn’t deserve.
I rub a hand over my face, exhaling heavily through my nose as I fall slack in my chair. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t mean to let her in, or to start looking forward to the sound of her voice, or to feel that flicker of hope I swore I was done with.
Alana has easily become a soft, unexpected glow that makes me think I’m not completely numb anymore. Like maybe life actually has purpose, and you do end up where you’re supposed to.
But once that glow hit me, I got scared. I pulled away the second it got the tiniest bit warm.
And in doing so, I darkened my own sun—stole the heat right out of it—until all that’s left is a fading light that pales in comparison.
And, God, I want it to shine again.