Different Kind of Beautiful

Kaylie flopped down on my bed like she just came back from a 12 hour shift.

"Party. Tonight. You're going."

"No, I'm really not," I said without looking up from my laptop. The chem study guide in front of me looked like it had been written in ancient code. I was three wrong answers away from a breakdown.

Harper spun in my desk chair. "It's not even going to be that wild. Just people. Music. Minimal emotional damage."

"That's a lie," I muttered, highlighting something I'd already highlighted twice. "Parties are designed to cause emotional damage. That's their whole aesthetic. And I really don't feel like reliving what happened the last time I believed your 'come to a party it'll be fun."

Kaylie sat up. "Elyse. You haven't been out in weeks. And don't say you're too busy—we all have crap going on. You need to get out of your own head."

"I'm not in my head," I said, more sharply than I meant to. "I'm just behind in chem and English and—everything. I bombed that pop quiz in calc, Kaylie. Like I could feel the smoke rising from my GPA type failure."

Harper stopped spinning. "You're still top ten in the class. You're literally fine."

"No, I'm barely fine. And I'd like to at least stay that way." I closed the laptop with more force than necessary and rubbed my temples. "Sorry. I just... I can't go to a party and pretend like I'm not drowning."

Kaylie looked at me for a long second. "Okay," she said finally. "We hear you."

Harper nodded. "We'll send you pics of our tragic outfit choices and force you to judge them from afar."

"Appreciated."

They stayed for a bit longer, but the energy had shifted. And once they left, my room felt too quiet. Too still. I stared at my laptop.

Then at the window across the tree.

And wondered—not for the first time—if I was actually doing okay… or if I was just really good at pretending.

I stared out the window for a long time after Kaylie and Harper left.

My laptop glowed in front of me like some cold, unfeeling reminder of how far behind I was. My highlighters were scattered across the bed like dropped weapons. And yet… I hadn't touched a thing since they'd gone.

The silence pressed in.

Then—creak.

I looked up. Jordan's window cracked open, and a moment later, he leaned out into the cool air. His jacket was half-zipped, hair messy like he'd been lying down. His green eyes found mine like they always did—too easily.

"You coming tonight?" he called softly.

My stomach twisted.

The part of me that wanted to say yes was the same part that wanted to forget the suffocating anxiety building in my chest every time I looked at my grades.

But then I saw the flash of the 78% from the last calc quiz in my peripheral vision, and it felt like a fist to the ribs.

I forced a tight smile. "No. I've got stuff to do."

He didn't answer right away.

"You okay?"

The question settled too gently inside my head.

I should've said yes.

Instead, I bit my lip and said nothing.

Jordan watched me for longer, like he was waiting for a more honest answer.

Then: "You want company?"

The air went still.

God, I wanted to say yes. But that felt dangerous. Like it would mean letting him in. Not just physically, but into the mess of everything—school, my brain, the feelings I hadn't even named yet.

But when I looked at him, really looked at him, he wasn't smirking or teasing. He wasn't leaning on that easy charm that usually made girls fall apart.

He just looked like someone who'd show up if I let him. I swallowed hard. "Yeah," I said, quietly. "Okay."

Five minutes later, he shuffled through the branches and crawled through my window.

When he stepped into my room, it felt different than last time. He didn't flirt. Didn't joke. Just reached over the edge of the bed and handed me half a sleeve of Oreos and a Gatorade like I'd summoned him with a sad spell.

"Purple's the superior flavor," he said.

I smiled faintly. "It's grape."

He made a face. "Still superior."

We sat in silence for a while, the kind that didn't feel empty. He leaned against the wall near my desk, legs stretched out. I sat cross-legged on the edge of my bed, Oreo crumbs gathering on my chem notes.

"Wanna talk about it?" he asked, finally. I shook my head. "Not yet."

"Okay." He picked at the edge of his sleeve.

We sat in the stillness for a while. The Oreos were gone. My laptop screen had dimmed. I could hear the wind brushing the leaves outside my window and the soft tap of Jordan's foot against the floor.

My head was starting to clear—but my heart hadn't caught up yet.

I shifted slightly, turned to face him.

"Can I ask you something?"

He glanced at me. "You just did."

I gave him a look. "Seriously."

His smirk faded. "Yeah. Okay."

I hesitated, then asked, "Why did you do it? The whole… using girls thing."

His breath caught. Just slightly. But enough that I noticed.

"You mean the flirting?" he asked, like he was trying to buy time.

I shook my head. "No. I mean the hurting. The going after girls who liked you and then ghosting them. Kissing people you didn't care about. Leading people on." I took a deep breath. "Me."

The words were sharper than I meant them to be—but not wrong.

Jordan looked down at his hands. For a second, I thought he might deflect again. Say something stupid or charming to avoid answering.

But he didn't. He let out a slow breath and leaned his head back against the wall.

"I think…" he started, voice lower, more careful than before. "I think I liked the way it made me feel. Wanted. In control. I got to decide when to start something, when to end it. I didn't owe anyone anything. It was simple."

He paused, then added, "No one could really hurt me if I got there first."

I blinked. "But that's not real," I said, soft.

"I know." He rubbed the back of his neck. "It's just what I had. What I learned." I tilted my head. "Learned from who?"

He didn't speak for a long time. He seemed to be struggling to find words. I patted the spot next to me on the bed, hoping it'd give him some comfort. He sat next to me shoulder to shoulder.

"My dad left when I was seven." The room seemed to shrink around us.

"It wasn't dramatic or anything," he went on, voice scratchy like it hurt to pull the words out. "No screaming. No custody battle. Just… one day he went on a trip and didn't come back. He said he'd be gone a few days. Left me this dumb little note with a smiley face."

I didn't breathe.

His jaw clenched. "I kept that note for a year. Like maybe if I held onto it long enough, he'd come back for it."

I felt my throat tighten.

"He sends birthday cards. Sometimes. Usually late. It's like he's still trying to convince himself he matters. But he doesn't know anything. He doesn't know who I am. I mean thankfully Finn was just born so he doesn't- he never had him in the first place. But I remember." He rubbed his thumb against his palm.

Jordan rubbed his face. "Eventually my mom stopped pretending. She remarried once she got pregnant with Amelia. Steve's nice. He tries. But it's not the same. I don't want it to be." He smiled without humor. "I'm not mad about it. I just… I don't let them in. No one actually. Not really."

He looked at me then. "You're the only person I've let in."

"Jordan…" I trailed off, unsure of what to say.

He looked down. "I know I shouldn't still be angry. It's been over ten years. But I am. And I hate that I miss him more than I hate him."

"I'm not trying to dump trauma on you," he added quickly. "I just—I didn't want to pretend or make up a lie like I usually do. Hopefully it makes more sense. Even if it isn't right."

My hand moved on instinct—reaching for his, fingers brushing his knuckles until they laced together like we'd done it a thousand times. He didn't look up. Just let out a broken laugh and said, "I wish he did something wrong. Like actually wrong. Something I could hate him for. Not just... leaving. Then it wouldn't hurt so much. I could hate him and be done with it."

My heart cracked open.

I scooted closer, slowly, until our legs were touching. Then I slid my arm around him, unsure at first—but when I rested my head against his shoulder, he leaned into me like he'd been waiting for permission to fall apart.

"It's okay," I whispered. "You can be mad and miss him at the same time. It doesn't make you weak."

He was quiet for a moment, then I felt it—the soft tremor in his chest. Then he turned into me and buried his face in my neck like he was trying to hide the fact he was crying.

I tightened my arms around him and buried my finger in his hair.

"I've got you," I whispered. "It's okay. I'm here."

His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer. I could feel his heartbeat thudding against mine. Our legs tangled without meaning to. His breath hitched again.

"I used to stand by the window every Saturday morning," he murmured into my hair, voice cracking. "Just in case he showed up. Like in a movie. Like maybe it was all a misunderstanding."

I brushed my fingers through his hair, slow and gentle. "He was the one who didn't show up. Not you."

He didn't answer, just pulled me in tighter. His nose pressed behind my ear, and I could feel his chest finally start to slow.

We stayed like that for a long time—his face buried in my shoulder, my fingers in his hair, the kind of silence that says everything.

The kind that lets you breathe again.

Eventually, he shifted, just enough to look at me in the eyes. His eyes were a little red, his lashes wet, but he didn't look away.

He just whispered, "You make me feel like I'm not hard to love."

I blinked.

Air left my lungs all at once. I pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face.

"What?" I asked, barely above a whisper, like I hadn't heard him right.

He didn't flinch. Didn't laugh it off or pretend it was a joke.

His sleepy green eyes searched mine, steady. Real.

"You do," he said. "Even when I'm a mess. Even when I screw everything up and pretend not to care. When you look at me like I matter... it makes me want to be someone who deserves it."

My heart stuttered. I stared at him, stunned, trying to decide whether to kiss him or cry or both.

But instead, I just whispered back, "You already are."

And slowly, like it had always been this way, we curled into each other. My head on his chest. His hand in my hair. His thumb tracing slow circles on my back.

It didn't feel scary. It felt... right.

And just before I drifted off, warm in the soft hush of his breathing, I heard him whisper—so quiet I almost missed it—

"Please don't ever stop looking at me like that."

My heart fluttered.

I looked up to see his expression, but he was asleep, his face illuminated by the moonlight streaming in from the open window. The sharpness he wore like armor was gone. No smirk. No sarcasm. Just soft features and steady breaths, like letting me in had finally made something settle inside him.

He looked different like this.

Not less like Jordan—but more. More real. More honest. More... beautiful. He'd always been effortlessly beautiful, but this was different.

And for the first time, I didn't see the boy who broke my heart.

I saw the boy who was still healing.

I laid my head back on his chest and closed my eyes, holding that sentence like a secret against my skin. I fell asleep listening to the steady sound of his heartbeat, his breath soft against mine.