chapter 22

Jason lit a cigarette behind the greenhouse and exhaled a plume of gray into the cold air. His phone buzzed again—another message from someone he didn't care to answer. Emma hadn't texted all morning, but he knew she would. Eventually.

He didn't care.

Or at least that's what he told himself.

Michael had made his presence known. A sideways glance here, a whisper there. Jason had heard rumors—how Michael had been gathering a group, how he hadn't let go of what happened.

He didn't fear Michael.

But he was tired.

Tired of pretending he cared about lectures, of navigating Emma's soft concern, of walking corridors that felt narrower every day. He had secrets. Places he went when he disappeared. Not just people—but memories. Scars. Something old and unresolved.

He flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his heel.

Emma sat alone in the poetry class that afternoon. Jason had skipped again. She stared at the empty chair beside her, tracing the wood grain on her desk with a pencil.

She thought of the way he used to lean close when whispering snide comments about the lecturer's metaphors. The way he'd grin when she rolled her eyes. That version of him felt far away now. A stranger. She wasn't sure when it started slipping.

Across the room, Andrew read silently. His head never lifted.

She missed him too.

In the library. Late evening. Rain patters gently against the high arched windows. Only a few dim lamps remain on. Kate finds Andrew seated in a far corner, staring blankly at a poetry anthology.

---

Kate:

"You always hide in corners now."

Andrew:

"Not hiding. Just… quieter over here."

Kate:

Sits across from him, placing her bag down gently.

"You weren't always quiet. I remember when you used to argue with the professor over metaphors."

Andrew:

Smirks faintly, eyes still on the book.

"That version of me had reasons to speak."

Kate:

Softly

"You still do."

Andrew:

Looks at her finally.

"What if I don't? What if I'm just… passing time until the end?"

Kate:

"Then pass it with me."

Andrew:

There's a pause. He closes the book, fingers resting on its cover.

"You know I'm not good company."

Kate:

Shrugs.

"You're honest company. I'll take that over polite lies any day."

Andrew:

"Isn't that what you're doing, though? Being polite around me? Hoping I'll magically turn into someone who feels again?"

Kate:

Hurt flickers in her eyes but she covers it with a half-smile.

"No. I'm just hoping you'll remember that not everyone leaves you behind."

Andrew:

Quiet.

"I wish I could forget who did."

Kate:

"You don't have to forget. Just don't let them keep writing your story."

Andrew:

Studies her face a moment longer, then nods slowly.

"Okay. I'll stay… just a little longer."

"You're going to break if you don't talk to someone," she said.

He blinked. "I'm fine."

"You're not."

He turned to her, and for once, there was something honest in his expression. "Maybe not. But what difference does it make?"

Kate hesitated. "It makes a difference to me."

Andrew looked away first. His breath fogged the cold windowpane beside them. Snowflakes spiraled outside like soft, quiet confessions.

"Why?" he asked, voice low. "Why does it matter to you?"

Kate didn't answer right away. She sat down on the bench beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, but not quite. She didn't want to crowd him. Not Andrew.

"Because," she said finally, "you're not just some face in a hallway to me. You never were."

He gave a faint, humorless laugh. "Sure feels like it sometimes."

"You think you're invisible, but you're not," she said gently. "People notice you. I notice you."

"Not the one I wanted to."

Kate paused, then asked quietly, "Is it still about her?"

Andrew didn't reply. The silence said enough.

"You know she doesn't even see what you are," Kate continued. "What you've been through. What you carry. She sees someone reliable. Safe. She doesn't see the boy who stays up at night memorizing poems because they make the silence feel less empty."

"Kate—"

"Let me finish." Her voice was soft but firm. "She never deserved to be your storm. And maybe you needed her to be. Maybe you needed something to ache for. But you don't have to bleed for someone who can't even see you're hurting."

He turned to her slowly, searching her face. "What are you trying to say?"

She bit her lip. "That I'm here. Even if it's just to sit next to you while you fall apart."

A long silence. Then:

"You shouldn't wait around for someone like me," he murmured. "I'm too full of ghosts."

Kate gave a small, sad smile. "Then I'll haunt them with you."

The overhead lights flickered. A librarian cleared their throat in the distance. Andrew didn't move. Didn't speak. But for the first time in weeks, he didn't feel entirely alone.