Two days had already gone by since that shitty party.

When I woke up yesterday, the world felt washed out again.

Colors muted. Edges blurred. Like someone had dialed down the brightness on everything.

The past moments with Chris, the warmth, the quiet connection, felt like a dream I’d made up. A good dream I’d woken up from too soon. And now I was back in the static.

I didn’t check his messages. I couldn’t. Not yet.

It still hurt.

Maybe I was overreacting. But that didn’t change anything. Knowing I was being dramatic didn’t dull the sting.

At school, the noise of the morning hallway hit me like a wall—slamming lockers, shrill laughter, shoes squeaking across the floor. I moved on autopilot, opened my locker, and shoved in a few books.

Then I shut the door and nearly jumped out of my skin.

Chris was standing right there.

He looked nervous. His hands kept twitching by his sides, and his eyes darted around like he was afraid I might bolt.

“Hey, Troy,” he said. “I’m really sorry about Friday.”

I shrugged, keeping my expression as blank as I could manage. “Whatever.”

I tried to make it sound like it didn’t matter.

“You didn’t read my messages, did you?” he asked.

I crossed my arms. “I can’t believe you left me at that fucking party by myself.”

It came out sharper than I meant. Too raw. Too real.

His eyes flinched, just a little. Then something shifted in his face—frustration, maybe. A flicker of anger.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low. “But you didn’t seem by yourself. You looked pretty happy, actually.”

Shit, I thought.

He’d seen the photo of Jamie and me.

I hadn’t expected him to care. Not really.

He looked down, the color rising in his cheeks.

“Look... do you wanna know why I didn’t go?” he said. “I had a panic attack, okay? I couldn’t help it.”

The bell rang, cutting through the air like a blade. Chris took a step back.

“I have to go,” he said, and before I could say anything, he was already walking away.

I leaned back against the lockers, suddenly sick to my stomach.

Of course, I hadn’t thought something like that could’ve happened.

I’d been too wrapped up in my own humiliation. My own drama.

Throwing myself a pity party while he was probably struggling just to breathe.

God. I was such an asshole.

***

After class, I wandered to the bleachers like I always did. It was one of those things I did without thinking, even when everything else felt like a mess.

Jamie was already there, stretched out like he owned the place. Sunlight spilled across the field, golden and warm, but it didn’t touch him. He always looked a little apart from everything. Untouchable.

“Hey!” he said, flashing me a grin as I sat down beside him.

He looked like he hadn’t slept. His eyes were bloodshot, and a fresh bruise bloomed purple beneath one of them.

“Hey...” I muttered back and lit a cigarette. At this rate, I was going to be broke by the end of the month.

Jamie leaned back, watching the clouds like he didn’t have a care in the world. “You okay, dude?”

I let out a sigh. “I’m an asshole, Jamie.”

He laughed softly. “The question is: aren’t we all?”

I turned to look at him properly and winced. “What happened to your face?”

He tilted his head, confused, until I pointed at the bruise.

“Oh, that?” He gave a lazy shrug. “It’s nothing. You should see the other guy.”

He smiled again, but it felt wrong, thin, and hollow. Just for show.

I didn’t push. Not right then.

“You high?” I asked instead.

“Not enough, actually.”

He pulled a small pill bottle from his pocket, shook one out onto the bleacher, crushed it beneath his lighter, and snorted the powder without ceremony. No hesitation. Like it was nothing more than brushing his teeth.

I stared, stunned. “What’s that?”

“For my back pain,” he said, grinning.

Liar.

Then he glanced at me, something unusually serious in his eyes. “Sorry, man. Not sharing. Never try this shit, okay? Trust me.”

I hadn’t planned on asking. But the way he said it—sharp and weighted—made the air between us drop a few degrees.

He stood, stretching like a lazy cat, casual as ever.

“We should hang out sometime,” he said. “I had fun on Friday.”

“Sure,” I replied automatically, before my brain could stop me.

***

That night, everything festered—guilt, regret, confusion. It pressed in from all sides until I couldn’t take it anymore.

Around eight, after dinner, I finally picked up my phone. I sent Chris a message—short, clumsy, and probably not enough.

But I didn’t wait for a reply.

I couldn’t undo what I did, but maybe I could show him I cared enough to try.

I grabbed my notebook and slid it between the waistband of my jeans and my back, pulling my T-shirt over it to hide the bulge.

Then I headed downstairs.

“Mom?” I called, stepping into her office.

She froze mid-rant, fingers hovering over the keyboard, glasses slipping down her nose. A half-drunk mug of coffee sat forgotten next to her. Whoever was about to get that email... my condolences. RIP.

“Why are you still working? Isn’t it kinda late?”

She shot me a glare. “Because some people are idiots.”

Sheesh. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to ask for a favor.

Mom’s a boss-bitch lady. Climbed the corporate ladder like a machine. But I think she works too much. That’s probably why she gets so pissed sometimes.

Then her expression softened. “Do you need something, buddy?”

“I know I’m grounded and all, but can I swing by the coffee shop real quick? I left my notebook with Chris.”

“The one helping you with math?”

“Yeah, that one.”

She paused, eyes narrowing like she was calculating the risk.

“One hour.”

Hell yeah!

“Thanks!” I grabbed the keys and bolted before she could change her mind. I just had to remember to come back with the notebook in hand, or she’d definitely catch on.

I stopped by the coffee shop first, just in case he was finishing a shift. But it was already closed. No lights. No Chris. Just my own reflection staring back at me in the glass, like even I wasn’t sure what I was doing anymore.

My heart thudded harder as I pulled into his street. When I reached his door, I hovered for a few seconds, nerves rattling inside me. The porch light hummed quietly above me. My stomach twisted.

What was I even doing?

Before I could turn back, the door opened.

Chris stood there, looking caught off guard.

“Troy?”

I took a breath, my voice catching in my throat for half a second. “I’m an idiot. And I’m sorry.”

He blinked, surprised. Then stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come in.”

His room felt different this time. Not unfamiliar, just... heavy. Like both of us were carrying something with us.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and I took the chair at his desk. My hands wouldn’t stay still.

“I feel awful,” I said. “I should’ve checked your messages.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But... I didn’t really make it easy either. I didn’t say anything. That wasn’t fair.”

“You could’ve just texted that you weren’t coming,” I said. “I would've gone home.”

Would’ve saved everyone a disaster.

But I didn’t say that out loud. The drinking, the photo, the mess. Well, that was on me.

“You’re right,” Chris said. “I just... wasn’t able to. I feel really bad about it.”

I hesitated. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

He looked down, cheeks pink. “I have anxiety, like I told you. Been dealing with it since my mom died.”

I blinked. “Oh.”

He’d only ever mentioned his dad. I’d wondered, but never asked. That also explains his mom’s photo on the shelf. It’s the only way he gets to see her...

“Was it a long time ago?”

“Seven years.”

He said it immediately. Like he had been counting every single second ever since.

“That’s awful,” I said. “Must’ve been really hard.”

There was nothing else I could offer. No fix. No advice. Just presence.

“I’m much better now,” he said, “Therapy’s helped a lot. I hadn’t had a panic attack in like a year or so.”

“Guess I broke my streak.”

I nodded, not sure what to say.

“I was alone at home, trying to calm down, but it kept getting worse,” he continued. “I just kept thinking, what if you didn’t show up? What if I made a fool of myself? What if I panicked and wanted to go home? So I just called my dad. He brought me meds from the hospital.”

“Knocked me out for the rest of the night.”

“That sucks, dude,” I said softly.

“You could’ve stayed home,” I added. “Or come over to mine. We could’ve watched a movie or something.”

Chris looked away, fingers picking at the edge of his shirt. “I was too embarrassed. I feel like a burden sometimes.”

“I would’ve preferred being burdened over ghosted.”

He looked up at me and smiled, faint and real. “Fair enough.”

Then, a little teasing: “How was the party?”

“Terrible. Really.”

“You looked like you were having fun, though.”

There it was again. That was the second time he’d brought it up.

Why? Did it bother him?

Maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

But... what if it did?

I rolled my eyes. “Everyone looks happy when they’re drunk. Doesn’t mean they aren’t miserable.”

“Is that how you felt?”

“Yeah. Kinda,” I said. “I got home wasted. Puked on the porch. My mom flipped. I’m grounded. And now I need a job. Basically made a fool of myself again.”

Chris winced. “That sounds brutal.”

I just nodded.

Then he straightened up a little. “Actually... the coffee shop’s hiring. Evening shifts. I was gonna tell you.”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “You should apply. I can put in a good word. At least I wouldn’t get some creep as a coworker.”

For a second, I just stared at him, feeling stupidly happy over being offered a minimum wage job.

“Cool,” I said. “I’m a bit of a creep, though.”

Chris smirked. “Yeah, but you’re a creep I like.”

His eyes widened slightly, like the words had slipped out before he could stop them.

Not gonna lie, hearing it was... nice.

Very nice, actually.

“I mean—as long as you can make a decent coffee, I’ll be happy,” he added quickly.

Maybe trying to backtrack. Distract me.

But it was too late.

That sentence got stuck in my head like caramel.