Chapter 10

Santiago

I don’t go downstairs.

I hear everything anyway.

Plates clinking.
Julian talking too loud.
Henry asking stupid questions.
My mum laughing like nothing’s wrong.

I sit on my bed and stare at the wall across from mine—Easton’s wall. His window’s right there, separated by a fence and maybe a metre of stubborn pride. Our rooms have always faced each other. Long rooms, wide windows. No privacy. No escape.

I could see his whole life if I wanted to.

I don’t.

I peel my spikes off and drop them by the door harder than necessary. They hit the floor with a satisfying crack. My legs ache in that deep, mean way that doesn’t come from losing—it comes from thinking.

I told myself I didn’t care.

That’s the fucked-up part.

I almost believed it.

I flop back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying his voice from debate like it’s on a loop I can’t shut off.

You don’t care.
You just show up and win.

Bullshit.

I care so much it pisses me off.

I care when I lose.
I care when I win and it doesn’t feel right.
I care when people expect me to be fine all the time because I smile through it.

And yeah—maybe I don’t bleed all over the floor like Easton does, but that doesn’t mean I don’t fucking feel it.

There’s a knock on my door.

“Santi?” Mum’s voice. Soft. Careful.

“I’m not hungry.”

She pauses. “Easton’s here.”

“I know.”

Another pause. Longer. “He didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I laugh under my breath. “Then why did it work so well?”

She sighs. “I’ll leave the plate outside.”

Footsteps. Retreat.

I sit up again, jaw tight, fingers digging into my sheets. I hate that everyone treats me like I’m supposed to be fine. Like I’m the easy one. The flexible one. The one who doesn’t crack.

Easton cracks.

I don’t.

Which means when he says something like that, it just… sinks in.

I glance toward the window without meaning to.

His room’s lit.

I can see him pacing, shadow moving back and forth like he’s trapped in his own head. Same buzz cut. Same rigid posture. Same furious energy even when he’s standing still.

We’ve been mirrors for so long it’s disgusting.

A knock—this time quieter.

Then his voice. From outside.

“Santiago.”

I don’t answer.

I sit there, watching his silhouette freeze through the glass like he knows I’m looking.

“You skipped dinner,” he says.

No shit.

He says my name again, lower. Like it matters.

I get up and slide the window open just enough to hear him properly.

“What,” I say flatly.

I don’t look at him at first. I know what I’ll see. Guilt. Tension. That stupid honesty he wears when he’s falling apart.

He says, “I didn’t mean it.”

I finally look.

He’s standing there in the dark, hands shoved into his jacket, shoulders tight like he’s bracing for impact. Blue eyes sharp even in low light.

“You absolutely did,” I say.

“I was angry.”

“So am I,” I snap. “Difference is, I don’t get to explode about it.”

He flinches. Just a little.

“I train too,” I say. “I work my ass off. I don’t just show up and collect trophies.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

That almost makes it worse.

“I lose,” I continue. “I choke. I fuck up. I just don’t broadcast it.”

Silence stretches between our windows.

“I shouldn’t have said it,” he says.

“I know,” I reply. “Doesn’t erase it.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again.

Good.

I slide the window shut.

Lock it.

Not because I hate him.

Because if I don’t, I might say something I can’t take back.

I sit on my bed, back against the wall, breathing hard like I just ran another race. My room feels too big. Too quiet. The plate of food sits outside my door, untouched.

Across the fence, his light stays on.

So does mine.

We don’t sleep.

We just exist on opposite sides of the same silence, windows facing each other, both pretending we’re fine with it.

And maybe that’s the worst part.