Trying to Fix Us

For the first time in a long time, Caesar was scared.

Not of failure, not of losing a game, not even of disappointing people.

He was scared of losing Blythe forever.

And after last night—after she had looked him in the eyes and told him she had stopped waiting—he realized he had already come dangerously close to doing just that.

But he wasn't ready to let go.

Not yet.

---

It started with small things.

A "good morning" when he passed her in the hallway. A quick glance in class, just long enough to let her know he was looking. A text he almost didn't send, but did anyway.

Hey.

Blythe read the message, stared at it for a moment, then put her phone down without answering.

Caesar tried not to let that sting.

She had every reason not to respond. He had ignored her for months, pushed her away, made her feel like she didn't matter.

Now, he was trying to undo all of that.

And maybe it was selfish, but he wasn't going to stop.

Not this time.

---

A week passed, and he kept trying.

When she dropped her pen in class, he picked it up before she could. When she walked past him to her locker, he moved just a little closer, hoping she'd say something. When she had a bad day—he could still tell, even after all this time—he wanted to ask about it.

But he didn't.

Because she wasn't ready for that yet.

Still, he wasn't giving up.

So when he saw her sitting alone in the courtyard after school, he knew this was his chance.

Taking a deep breath, he walked over, sitting down beside her without a word.

She glanced at him, unimpressed. "What are you doing?"

He shrugged. "Sitting."

"Obviously." She sighed, shutting her book. "What do you want, Caesar?"

He hesitated, then said the only thing that mattered.

"I want to fix this."

Blythe blinked, as if she hadn't expected him to say it out loud.

Her expression didn't soften, but something in her eyes flickered.

"Why now?" she asked.

Caesar looked down, running a hand through his hair. "Because I was stupid," he admitted. "Because I thought ignoring everything would make it easier, but it just made me feel worse."

Blythe exhaled slowly. "And what do you expect me to do with that?"

He shook his head. "Nothing." He met her gaze. "I just want you to know that I do care. I always have. I was just too much of an idiot to show it."

Silence.

Then—

"Yeah," Blythe muttered. "You were."

Caesar let out a breath, a small, almost relieved smile tugging at his lips. "Does that mean I have a chance to fix it?"

Blythe didn't answer right away. She stared at him, like she was searching for something, deciding if he really meant it.

Then, finally, she sighed.

"I don't know."

But she didn't walk away this time.

And maybe—just maybe—that meant there was still hope.