Chapter 1
Confused
Yesterday was a lie, or maybe today is. I can’t tell anymore.
We keep telling each other that we’re just friends, but nothing about yesterday felt like a friendship. It wasn’t just polite warmth or easy familiarity; it felt like us. It felt real, raw, and completely identical to the way things used to be. We were holding each other, kissing, losing ourselves in long looks where I couldn’t pull my eyes away from him if I tried. Being near him brings this sudden, total peace—a rare quiet where every racing thought in my head just evaporates. When I’m with him, the weight vanishes, and there isn’t a single heavy thing left on my mind.
Then morning comes, and the confusion sets in.
Today, he walked right past me in the crowded hallway without even looking up, until I reached out and tapped his arm. When he turned, we crossed paths with small, polite smiles, but the shift was agonizing. How do we go from holding each other in the dark to acting like acquaintances in a hallway? Last night was the best night I’ve had in months, and now I’m left picking through the wreckage of his mixed signals.
He mentioned he went to a party recently. When I asked if he was with anyone else, he said no. I hesitate to trust it entirely, but I feel like he would tell me if something happened—I told him to always be honest with me, and I just pray he isn’t lying. The truth is, I want him to be mine and only mine. Last night made that feeling scream inside me. It felt like we were the only two people alive, lingering in a space that felt even better and closer than our past ever did.
I don’t understand how he can step back from that and pretend it didn’t happen. He admitted he still likes me—that he has a “crush” on me, as if we’re starting over from scratch. Hearing that felt good, a tiny spark in the dark. He even confessed that on the nights he misses me, he turns on the custom LED light I made—the one set to the specific color I call mine. It wasn’t just my project; we used it together. It was ours. He also said he hasn’t lit a candle since the breakup because that wasourthing too.
It’s those tiny details that mess with my head. If he still notices the empty space I left behind, why doesn’t he want this? Why run from the relationship?
I want to be with him so badly, but if he isn’t ready right now, I have to force myself to accept it. Being whatever this is—friends, placeholders, floating in between—still feels safer than having nothing at all. It hurts that I can’t just text him whenever I want or call him mine, but I’m holding onto the belief that things will align eventually. I love him. Looking back, I don’t think I ever stopped. From the very beginning, I had this absolute certainty that we were supposed to be together, and I was right then. Why would I be wrong now?
Last night, we got food and ate in the car—a quiet little car date that we weren’t allowed to call a date. Afterwards, we drove up to the hill to watch the sunset. It was freezing, so he took off his shirt and handed it to me to stay warm.
Maybe I’m reading too deep into every gesture, searching for clues that aren’t there. But if anyone else looked at us, they’d say the same thing: he still wants me. Thinking about him occupies ninety-five percent of my brain, this constant, aching loop of missing him.
Acting like a couple for one night makes the next day unbearable. I know we aren’t together, but after yesterday, pretending feels impossible. I see him moving through the halls, and it feels like a physical pull in my chest, drawing me toward him. I miss walking up to him whenever I want. I miss the ease of us.
I know I can’t force him into anything, and pushing him might only drive him further away. Maybe if I step back—if I stop asking, stop trying so hard to anchor us—he’ll realize what’s missing on his own and come back. I keep telling myself it will work out, that I 100% believe we are meant for each other.
But beneath all that hope, something quieter and darker inside me whispers that he’s never coming back. Not really. He will never want this the way he used to. The boy I fell in love with—the one who would do anything for me, who showed me endless love—isn’t mine anymore, and that reality doesn’t sit right in my chest. It hurts in a way I can’t quite put into words. He is still standing there in front of me, which feels amazing, but he isn’t mine to hold, mine to call, or mine to lean on. He’s right there, but completely out of reach.
