1
WES
Ashley and I have known each other since we were kids.
She has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. Through every fall, scrape, bruise, crying, and happy moments, she’s been there. Kissing has always become natural to us. Every party, she’s there. On my lap and kissing.
Pretty casual, right?
Well, my heart can’t handle casual. I can’t just tell her how badly I wish it wasn’t just casual kisses. How badly I want to hold her and drown her with my real affection. But being in love means putting the other before yourself. No matter how bad it hurts.
The music at this party is a dull roar, a wall of sound that should be drowning everything out, but all I can hear is the sound of her breathing against my cheek. Ashley is perched on my lap, her fingers idly playing with the hair at the nape of my neck. She leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my jawline, then my lips, before pulling back with a bright, effortless smile that doesn't reach the depth of the ache in my chest. To her, this is just what we do. It's the comfort of a lifelong habit, as natural as holding hands or sharing a secret.
"You're so quiet tonight, Wes," she says, her voice barely audible over the bass. She giggles, leaning her weight fully against me, oblivious to the fact that every touch is a slow-motion collision for me. She looks beautiful in the flashing lights, her eyes sparkling with a carefree energy that makes her feel a million miles away, even though she's barely an inch from my skin
I forced a smile, the muscles in my face feeling stiff and artificial. I shifted my grip on her waist, pulling her just a fraction tighter, trying to ground myself in the physical reality of her before the jealousy and the longing completely swallowed me whole. To the rest of the room, we were just two kids who had grown up too close for comfort, the same same-old story of a childhood bond that evolved into a convenient, low-stakes intimacy.
"Just thinking," I lied, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. "Too much noise for my brain today."
Ashley beamed, completely buying the excuse. She leaned in again, her lips brushing against mine in a series of quick, playful pecks that felt like sparks on dry gasoline. "You're such a nerd, Wes. That's why I love you."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
That's why I love you.
She said it with the same casualness she'd use to tell me she liked my shoes. It was the 'best friend' kind of love—the kind that was safe, stable, and utterly devastating.
I felt the air leave my lungs, leaving a vacuum where my heart should have been. I wanted to scream, to tell her that the love I felt was a violent, consuming thing that kept me awake at three in the morning, that every "casual" kiss was a desperate plea for her to see me—really see me. Instead, I just tightened my hold on her, my fingers digging slightly into the fabric of her dress.
"Love you too, Ash," I replied. The words felt like ash in my mouth. I hated how easy it was to lie to her, and I hated even more how easy it was for her to believe it.
She shifted, her attention momentarily diverted by someone calling her name from across the room. She didn't get off my lap immediately; she lingered, giving me one last, lingering peck on the nose that felt like a tease, though I knew she wasn't doing it on purpose. She was just Ashley—effortless, affectionate, and completely blind to the wreckage she left in her wake.
As she finally slid off my lap to answer her friend, the sudden absence of her warmth left me feeling exposed, as if the cold air of the room had rushed in to fill the space she’d occupied. I watched her walk away, her hips swaying with a natural grace, her laughter blending into the noise of the party. She didn't look back. Why would she? She knew I’d be right here, the constant in her life, the steady anchor she could return to whenever she felt like leaning.
I leaned my head back against the couch, closing my eyes for a second to steady my breathing. The scent of her perfume—something sweet and floral—still clung to my clothes, a cruel reminder of how close she had just been. I could still feel the ghost of her lips on mine, a phantom pressure that made my chest tighten.
I opened my eyes and saw a few people glancing my way—some with a knowing smirk, others with a look of pity. They probably thought they knew exactly what was happening: the childhood best friend, the same-old reliable Wes, playing the role of the safe harbor for the girl who belonged to everyone and no one. It was a role I had perfected over a decade. I was the protector, the confidant, the one who knew exactly how she liked her coffee and which songs made her cry. I was everything to her, except for the one thing that actually mattered.
A guy from the varsity team, Marcus, bumped into my shoulder as he pushed past, giving me a mocking pat on the back. "Still the loyal puppy, huh, Wes? She's a firecracker, man. Good luck keeping her in one place."
I didn't even have the energy to be angry. I just watched Marcus follow her, his eyes lingering on the curve of her back, and felt that familiar, suffocating weight return to my chest.
I watched them for a moment—Marcus leaning in to whisper something in Ashley's ear, and Ashley throwing her head back with that same, effortless laugh. For a split second, a flash of possessiveness flared in my gut, a desperate urge to stand up, walk over there, and remind everyone in the room that she was
mine.
But the thought died as quickly as it came, replaced by the crushing reality that she wasn't mine. She was just... Ashley. And I was just Wes.
The noise of the party started to feel oppressive, the music shifting into something louder and more aggressive. I stood up, the legs of the couch feeling like they were still vibrating from where she had been sitting. I needed a moment of silence, or at least a different kind of noise, before I completely lost my mind in the middle of a living room.
I tried to look away, to find some distraction in the crowd or the music, but my eyes acted like magnets, pulling me back to her. That's when I saw it. Marcus hadn't just whispered something in her ear; he had shifted his body, boxing her in against the wall. And Ashley... she wasn't pushing him away.
They were making out. Not the playful, casual pecks she gave me, but something heavy and hungry. It was the kind of kiss that claimed territory, the kind that left no room for doubt. I stood there, frozen, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I wanted to feel angry—I
should
have been angry—but all I felt was a hollow, echoing void. To her, this was probably just another extension of the "casual" intimacy she shared with everyone. To her, this was just another party. To me, it was a slow-motion car crash and I was the only one watching.
I felt a cold numbness wash over me, a strange contrast to the heat of the room. I didn't move; I couldn't. I just stood there as the world blurred around the edges, focusing on the way Marcus’s hand was slid firmly onto her waist, the same spot where my hand had been just minutes ago. It was a visceral reminder of my own invisibility. I was the one who knew her soul, but he was the one who could touch her like that without the weight of a decade of unspoken longing holding him back.
Eventually, the intensity of their encounter seemed to peak and fade. Marcus pulled away, giving her a smug, knowing look—a look that said he’d just won a prize he didn't even have to work for. He didn't say a word to me as he navigated through the crowd toward the door, his gait confident and careless. He didn't care that he had just shredded my composure; he didn't even know I was watching. He just left, disappearing into the night, leaving behind a silence in my head that was louder than the party.
Ashley didn't notice the silence of my gaze. She just smoothed her dress with a casual flick of her wrist, her eyes scanning the room for the next thrill, the next conversation. When she finally spotted me, she didn't look guilty or flustered. She just beamed, her expression as innocent as if she’d just spent the last five minutes talking about the weather instead of tasting someone else's mouth.
She practically bounced back toward me, the excitement of the party still radiating off her in waves. "Wes! Where did you go?" she asked, sliding back into my space, her shoulder brushing against mine. She reached out and grabbed my hand, her fingers interlacing with mine with that terrifyingly natural familiarity.
I looked down at our joined hands, the contrast of her small, delicate fingers against mine feeling like a cruel joke. A few minutes ago, those same fingers had been curled into Marcus’s shirt. I wanted to pull away, to let her feel the sudden void where I usually stood, but my body betrayed me. I squeezed her hand back, a reflex of a love that had become a habit.
"Nowhere," I managed to say, my voice sounding tight and strained. "Just getting some air."
She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked up at me. For a heartbeat, I thought she might actually see it—see the heartbreak, the jealousy, the sheer exhaustion of loving her from the sidelines. "Are you okay? You look... weird."
I stared at her, and for a second, the mask almost slipped. I wanted to tell her that "weird" was the only way to describe the feeling of my heart being put through a meat grinder while she smiled at me. I wanted to ask her if Marcus tasted better than the casual kisses she gave me. But the habit of silence was too strong; it was the armor I had worn for years to keep from losing her entirely.
"Just a headache," I lied, the words tasting like lead. "The music is a bit much."
Ashley let out a soft, sympathetic hum and leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to my cheek. It was a gesture of pure, platonic affection—the kind of kiss a sister might give a brother—and it felt like a knife twisting in my gut. She didn't see the wreckage because she was the one who had caused it, and in her world, the damage was invisible.
I didn't wait for her to ask if I wanted to leave together. I couldn't. If I stayed one more minute, if I saw her laugh at one more joke or touch another person, I was going to shatter. I gently untangled my fingers from hers, the sudden loss of contact feeling like a physical wound.
"I'm heading out, Ash. This headache is actually killing me," I murmured, not looking her in the eye. Before she could protest or offer to walk me to my car, I turned and navigated through the crowd, the bass of the party becoming a muffled thrum as I stepped out into the cool night air. The silence of the parking lot was a relief, but the walk to my car felt like a trek through a wasteland. I didn't look back. I just wanted to get home and disappear into the shadows of my room, where I could finally let the mask fall.
The drive home was a blur of streetlights and static on the radio. Once I stepped inside my house, the silence felt heavy, almost suffocating. I didn't turn on the lights. I just walked straight to my room, dropped my keys on the dresser with a loud
clatter
, and collapsed onto my bed. I didn't even take off my shoes. I just lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the image of Ashley and Marcus burned into my retinas.
My phone began to buzz in my pocket. I didn't have to look to know who it was. Then it stopped. Then it started again. A text, then another, then a missed call. I pulled the phone out and looked at the screen, the bright light blinding me in the darkness of the room.
Where did you go?
Wes?
Are you home?
Why aren't you answering me??
I watched the little bubbles appear as she started typing another message, then vanish, then appear again. I felt a surge of something—anger, maybe, or just a desperate need to be missed. For once, I didn't want to be the reliable anchor. I wanted her to wonder. I wanted her to feel a fraction of the uncertainty that had been my only constant for years. I pressed the power button and watched the screen go black, silencing the world.
I didn't want to be in my room anymore; the walls were starting to feel like they were closing in, echoing with the sound of her laughter and the sight of her with Marcus. I needed something to numb the edge, something to stop the constant, rhythmic throb of longing in my chest. I pulled on a pair of oversized, baggy jeans and threw a heavy black hoodie over my head, pulling the strings tight until the world was just a narrow slit of vision. I felt hidden, anonymous, and for the first time in a long time, that felt like a relief.
I didn't bother with the car; I just walked to the corner store, my footsteps heavy on the pavement. The fluorescent lights of the shop were jarringly bright, a stark contrast to the dimness of my mood. I walked straight to the back, my eyes scanning the shelves until they landed on the liquor. I grabbed a few bottles—hard stuff, things that would burn the throat and quiet the mind—and walked up to the counter.
The clerk didn't even look up from his phone, his expression bored and vacant. He barely glanced at me as he scanned the bottles, and he didn't even think to ask for ID. To him, I was just another kid in a hoodie trying to hide from the world. I paid in cash, the bottles clinking together in the plastic bag, and stepped back out into the night. I didn't feel like a "loyal puppy" anymore; I just felt empty.
I walked back home in a daze, the weight of the plastic bag pulling at my shoulder. The cool night air felt sharp against my face, but it didn't do anything to clear the fog in my head. Once inside, I retreated to my room and shut the door with a definitive click, locking it for the first time in years. I didn't want anyone—especially not her—to just wander in and find me like this.
I sat on the floor, leaning my back against the bed, and uncorked the first bottle. The smell of the alcohol was pungent, filling the small space of my room. I took a long, deep swallow, the liquid burning a path down my throat, momentarily replacing the ache in my chest with a searing, physical heat. I closed my eyes, trying to imagine a version of my life where I didn't wake up every morning wondering if today was the day she’d finally see me.
As the alcohol began to bloom in my bloodstream, the edges of the room started to soften. The silence of the house felt less oppressive and more like a blanket. For the first time in hours, the image of Ashley and Marcus began to blur, fading into a hazy, distant memory. I took another drink, leaning my head back against the mattress, letting the numbness wash over me in slow, heavy waves
I took another long pull from the bottle, the liquid making my head swim, but it couldn't drown out the thoughts that kept surfacing. I knew how Ashley worked. She lived for the rush, for the immediate, electric thrill of someone new. I could almost picture her now—the way she’d look under a different set of sheets, the way she’d laugh into someone's neck. Whether it was Marcus or some other guy she’d met ten minutes after I left, it didn't matter.
The realization hit me like a physical blow: while I was here, hiding in the dark and drinking myself into a stupor, she was likely giving herself to someone else. And the worst part was that she’d probably think of me as the "safe" place to return to once she was done. I was the after-care, the emotional support, the one who held her hair back or listened to her vent about her "complicated" flings. I was the foundation she built her life on, but I was never the one she wanted to build a home with.
I let out a jagged, bitter laugh, the sound echoing in the empty room. I felt pathetic. Pathetic and desperate. I stared at the black screen of my phone, wondering if she was even thinking about me, or if I had already been erased from her mind by the heat of someone else's skin.
I tilted the bottle back again, the burn in my throat now a welcome distraction from the burn in my mind. I wondered if she even noticed the difference between the way Marcus touched her and the way I did, or if it all just blended into one big, casual blur of affection. The thought made me sick, yet I couldn't stop feeding it. I imagined her eyes fluttering shut, her breath hitching in that specific way she did when she was truly excited—a sound I had only ever heard in fragments, usually when she was laughing too hard or teasing me.
I slumped further down against the bed, my limbs feeling heavy and disconnected. The room was spinning slowly now, a carousel of shadows and regret. I wanted to hate her for it, but the love was too deep, too ingrained in my DNA. I just wanted to be the one she wanted that way. I wanted to be the reason she couldn't breathe.
The silence of my room was suddenly punctured by the violent vibration of my phone on the floorboards. I didn't pick it up, but the screen lit up repeatedly, casting a rhythmic, ghostly blue glow against the wall. Each buzz was a demand, a question, a desperate attempt to regain the anchor she had taken for granted. I could almost hear her voice through the glass—frustrated, confused, perhaps a little panicked that the one person who always answered was finally silent.
I watched the phone dance across the hardwood, sliding an inch every time she called. I felt a twisted sense of power in it, a sudden, sharp realization that my absence could actually create a void. But the power was fleeting, replaced quickly by the crushing weight of the alcohol and the images of her with Marcus. I didn't want to be her favorite safety net anymore.
I stared at the ceiling, the room tilting as I drifted in and out of a heavy, chemical sleep. My mind started to wander, drifting toward a possibility that felt like a lifeline. What if I just... left? What if I wasn't in the same hallways, seeing her every day, watching her lean on me only to drift toward someone else? The thought of a different school, a different city, a place where I wasn't "Ashley's Wes," felt like the only way to survive.
The phone continued to buzz, a persistent insect trying to break through the wall I'd built around myself. I ignored it, letting the device slide toward the edge of the bed until it finally fell, landing with a muffled thud on the carpet. I didn't care where it was. I didn't want to hear her voice, not if it was just to ask why I was being "weird" or to tell me she missed me in a way that didn't actually mean anything.
I closed my eyes, and for a moment, the room stopped spinning. In its place was a vision of a different life. I imagined a school where no one knew my name, where I wasn't the reliable best friend or the designated shoulder to cry on. I imagined walking down a hallway and not seeing her blonde hair catch the light, not seeing her laugh at someone else's joke while I stood three feet away, invisible
I shifted my weight, the baggy fabric of my jeans rustling as I curled into a ball. The alcohol had finally transitioned from a burn to a heavy, oppressive blanket, pinning me to the floor. I thought about my mother, and the way she always looked at me with a sort of quiet pity, as if she knew exactly what I was going through even if I'd never told her. She’d listen. She’d understand that the air in this town had become too thin for me to breathe.
"I can't do this anymore," I whispered, the words slurring slightly, disappearing into the dark of the room. I didn't know if I was talking to the void or to a ghost of a future version of myself. The idea of a transfer application, a new set of textbooks, and a city where the name 'Ashley' meant nothing felt like the only way to stop the bleeding. I wanted to be a stranger. I wanted to be anyone other than the boy who waited.
I woke up when the sunlight began to pierce through the gaps in my curtains, though "woke up" was a generous term. I had simply transitioned from a drunken stupor into a dehydrated, pounding haze. I hadn't slept; I had just drifted in and out of consciousness, the same loop of Ashley and Marcus playing on a loop behind my eyelids. My throat felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper, and my head throbbed in sync with the ticking of the clock.
I looked at the time: 9:30 AM. I should have been in second period. Instead, I was staring at an empty bottle on the floor and a phone that was practically dead from the sheer volume of missed notifications. I didn't even consider getting dressed. I stayed in those same baggy jeans and the hoodie, the fabric smelling of stale alcohol and desperation. I didn't have the strength to pretend to be the "reliable" Wes today. I just lay there, listening for the sound of the front door.
Around 11:00 AM, the heavy thud of the front door echoed through the house. I heard the familiar, exhausted sigh of my mother as she dropped her keys on the entryway table, the sound of her night shift finally coming to an end. Usually, I’d be the one greeting her, offering to make her a coffee or helping her with her bag, but today I just sat there, staring at the door of my bedroom, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I didn't wait for her to come find me. I stood up, my legs feeling shaky, and walked out into the hallway. She was leaning against the wall, her shoulders slumped and her eyes rimmed with red from the long hours of work. She looked at me—really looked at me—taking in the disheveled state of my hair, the bloodshotness of my eyes, and the fact that I was still in the clothes from yesterday. She didn't ask why I wasn't at school; she just looked at me with that knowing, heartbreaking pity.
"Mom," I started, my voice sounding raw and cracked. "I can't... I can't stay here. Not at this school. Not in this town."
My mom didn't move for a long moment. She just stood there, her gaze softening as she took in the wreckage of me. She knew me too well; she could see the invisible bruises on my spirit that no doctor could treat. She reached out, her hand resting gently on my forearm, her touch a grounding force against the chaos swirling in my head.
"What happened, Wes?" she asked softly, though she already knew. She'd seen the way I drifted after every party, the way I looked like a ghost in my own home whenever Ashley's name was mentioned.
"I just need to go," I said, my voice breaking. "I can't keep doing this. I can't keep being the person who's just... *there*. I'm disappearing,"
My mother sighed, a sound that carried the weight of her own long night and the realization that her son was finally breaking. She didn't dismiss the idea or tell me to just "tough it out" or "get over" whatever drama was happening with the girl next door. She knew that for me, this wasn't just drama; it was a slow erosion of who I was.
She stepped closer and pulled me into a hug, her scent of old coffee and hospital soap enveloping me. For a moment, I let myself be small. I leaned into her, the tension of the last few years finally snapping, and a few hot, jagged tears escaped my eyes. I felt like a child again, pleading for a way out of a game I never asked to play.
"We'll figure it out, Wes," she whispered into my hair. "If you're truly miserable, we'll find a way to move you. Maybe your aunt's place in the city? Or a boarding school? Whatever it takes to get you some air."
I pulled back from the hug, the image of Florida flashing in my mind—the heat, the humidity, the distance. My father lived there, far away from the suffocating grip of this town and the gravitational pull of Ashley. They hadn't been on the best terms for years, but at this point, a strained relationship with a father I barely knew sounded infinitely better than the agonizing certainty of my current life.
"I want to go to Dad's," I said, the words feeling strange and heavy. "To Florida. Just for a while. I need to be somewhere where nobody knows me, where I don't have to wake up wondering who she's with."
My mom's expression shifted, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face. The divorce had been messy, and the distance between them had only grown over time. But she looked at my hollow eyes, the way I was practically vibrating with a desperate need to escape, and she sighed.
"Florida," she repeated, the word sounding like a distant dream. She looked at me, really searching my face, perhaps wondering if this was just a temporary impulse or a genuine need for survival. "Your father... he's not exactly the most stable presence, Wes. But if you think it's the only way to find some peace, I won't stand in your way."
She stepped back, her gaze lingering on me with a mixture of sadness and hope. "I'll call him today. We can talk about the logistics—the school transfer, your things, everything. But Wes," she paused, her voice turning serious, "once you go, you have to actually *leave*. No checking her Instagram every ten minutes. No texting her to make sure she's okay. If you're going to do this, you have to cut the cord."
I nodded, a strange sense of relief washing over me. The idea of a clean break felt like the first time I had been able to breathe in years. I didn't care about the instability of my father or the distance; I just wanted the noise of Ashley's world to finally go silent.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in a state of suspended animation. The house felt different now—not like a prison, but like a transit station. I started pulling a suitcase out of the back of my closet, the dust dancing in the shafts of light that hit the carpet. Every time I looked at my phone, I saw another notification from Ashley.
*Where are you??*
*Wes, answer me!*
*Omg are you sick? I'm coming over if you don't reply in 5 mins!!*
I felt a surge of panic. The thought of her bursting through my front door right now, with that bright, oblivious smile and the scent of another guy still clinging to her skin, made me want to crawl out of my own body. I didn't just want to move; I wanted to vanish. I hurriedly began stuffing clothes into the suitcase—random shirts, jeans, the few things that didn't feel like they belonged to the "Wes" she knew.
I threw a handful of hoodies into the suitcase, barely looking at what I was grabbing. Each item felt like a piece of an old skin I was shedding. The phone buzzed again, a relentless vibration that seemed to echo through the entire room, but I didn't even glance at the screen. I knew she wouldn't actually come—not today. She was too absorbed in the afterglow of the party, too busy being the center of attention to realize that her anchor was finally pulling up from the seabed.
There was a strange, cold clarity in the silence. For years, my life had been a series of reactions to her needs, her moods, her whims. Now, for the first time, the only thing that mattered was the space in my suitcase and the distance between me and this zip code. I could almost feel the humidity of Florida already, a heavy, wet heat that would wash away the sterile, frozen grief of this town.
My mom walked back into the room, her face set in a look of determined efficiency. She had her phone in one hand and her car keys in the other. "I just got off the phone with your father. He's... surprised, but he's agreed. I already booked your flight. It leaves in two hours, Wes."
I froze, a half-folded shirt still in my hands. The suddenness of it felt like a physical jolt. Two hours. In two hours, I would be in a metal tube soaring thousands of feet above this town, above the high school, and above the girl who didn't even know she was losing me. The panic I'd felt earlier was replaced by a rush of adrenaline so strong it made my fingers tremble.
"Two hours?" I whispered.
"Two hours," she confirmed, her voice firm. "Get the rest of your things in that bag right now. I'm driving you straight to the airport. We aren't giving this any more time to be reconsidered. Once you're on that plane, you're gone."
I moved with a frantic, desperate energy, shoving the last of my things into the suitcase and zipping it shut with a sharp, final *snap*. I didn't double-check if I had forgotten anything; if something was left behind, it was because it didn't belong in my new life. I grabbed my backpack and followed my mom out of the house, the air outside feeling electric, almost humming with the possibility of escape.
As we walked to the car, my phone buzzed in my pocket—a long, sustained vibration. A call. Ashley. I didn't even look at the screen. I just reached in and powered the device off, the screen fading to a black void. The silence that followed was the most beautiful thing I had heard in years.
"Ready?" my mom asked, her hand on the car door.
"Yeah," I breathed, sliding into the passenger seat. "Let's go."
