Chapter 11

Santiago
Friday, February 9th, 2024

The house is too quiet.

No school means no alarms, no rushing, no excuses to avoid thinking. Just the hum of pipes, the clink of dishes downstairs, and the fact that my window is still directly across from Easton Rivers’.

I shower longer than I need to, letting the steam fog my head instead of my thoughts. When I step out, the mirror’s useless anyway. Everything feels slightly off, like I slept wrong or said something I can’t take back.

I grab a towel, wrap it around myself, and head back into my room without thinking.

That’s the mistake.

Because the curtains are open.

And Easton is at his window.

Not leaning. Not pacing. Just standing there, hair still damp, staring out like he’s been doing it for a while. Like he was waiting for something to move on my side.

Our eyes meet.

And neither of us looks away.

It’s not dramatic. No music. No slow realization. Just that awful, sudden awareness of being seen when you’re not ready for it. When you didn’t plan for it. When you’re still raw from the night before.

His expression changes first. Not shock. Not embarrassment.

Something closer to guilt.

I step back on instinct, heart jumping, and yank the curtain halfway closed. My pulse is loud in my ears, stupid and fast, like I just got caught doing something wrong even though I didn’t.

I stand there for a second, breathing, then force myself to finish getting dressed like a normal person with dignity.

When I look back out a minute later, towel gone, hoodie on, he’s still there.

Of course he is.

This time, he doesn’t pretend not to see me.

He lifts a hand. Just slightly. Like a question he’s not sure he’s allowed to ask.

I don’t wave back.

But I don’t close the curtain either.

We stand there, separated by a fence, a few metres of cold air, and years of bullshit we’ve never dealt with properly. His room mirrors mine almost perfectly. Same long layout. Same stupid window placement. Same inability to hide.

I’m still hurt. That hasn’t magically disappeared overnight. The words he threw at me yesterday didn’t either. They sit heavy in my chest, dull and persistent.

But there’s something different now.

He looks… tired.

Not angry-tired. Not competitive-tired. Just worn down in a way I’ve never really seen before. Like he didn’t sleep. Like snapping yesterday cost him more than he thought it would.

He mouths something I can’t hear.

Sorry, maybe?

I don’t respond.

Instead, I sit on my bed, back against the wall, window still in view. He stays where he is. Neither of us moves. It’s not a standoff. It’s worse.

It’s quiet understanding without forgiveness.

Downstairs, I hear Julian arguing with Henry about cereal. Life going on like nothing cracked open last night.

Eventually, Easton steps back from the window.

The light in his room stays on.

So does mine.

We don’t talk.
We don’t wave.
We don’t resolve anything.

But for the first time since yesterday, he doesn’t look untouchable.

And I don’t feel invisible.