The rift

By the time Monday morning rolled around, I thought maybe I’d imagined it all.

Maybe the way his hands had lingered against mine, the way his lips had brushed my cheek like he couldn’t help himself, the way his voice had lowered when he whispered my name—it was all just a dream I’d let myself believe in.

Because now, he was gone.

Not physically—he was still there. Still walking the halls with that quiet, commanding presence. Still sitting at the back of class, watching, waiting.

But I could feel it.

Something had changed.

The air between us felt heavier now, but colder too. Like winter wind slipping through a crack in a window.

I first noticed it at my locker.

I was spinning the combination when I caught a whiff of him—a faint, smoky cedar scent I’d come to recognize instantly. My fingers froze on the dial, my whole body tightening as I glanced over my shoulder.

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall a few lockers down, arms folded over his chest. Watching me.

For one agonizing second, our eyes locked.

And then—just as quickly—he looked away.

I turned back to my locker, forcing my hands to keep moving, but my heart was pounding so hard I thought it might crack my ribs.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t even glance back before pushing off the wall and disappearing into the crowd.

I stood there for a long moment, staring into my locker, the books inside swimming in and out of focus as the sting of rejection settled over me like a second skin.

I’d have known better.

I should have known better.

It was stupid to think he’d be different.

Just because he’d kissed me like he needed me, held me like I was something fragile and precious. Just because he’d defended me when no one else had, just because he’d looked at me like he saw me…

That didn’t mean anything.

Not really.

Not to someone like him.

I slammed my locker shut and squared my shoulders, feeling the faintest trace of glass dust still embedded in the healing cut on my palm. It was almost a relief, that sharp little sting. At least pain was something I could understand.

If he wanted to pull away, fine.

I wouldn’t chase him.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of whispered gossip and careful avoidance.

I kept my head down, throwing myself into my work, scribbling notes furiously as if good grades might somehow fix the hollow ache growing in my chest.

I refused to look at him during class.

But I could feel him.

Every time I moved, every time I shifted in my chair, it was as if his eyes were following me, searing into the back of my neck.

When the final bell rang, I didn’t wait around.

I gathered my books and slipped out the side doors, letting the crisp afternoon air bite at my cheeks.

For once, I was grateful for the walk home.

The stretch of cracked sidewalks and empty streets gave me time to think. Time to breathe.

But no matter how far I walked, no matter how hard I tried to shake it, the memory of his tortured expression stayed with me—burned into my mind like a scar.

Why did he look at me like that?

Like he was fighting himself.

Like he hated himself.

Like he hated me.

That night, I sat at my desk, the light from my little lamp casting a warm circle over the pile of books I’d stacked there.

I tried to read. I tried to focus on the words in front of me.

But every few minutes, my eyes would drift to the window.

And every time, the street outside was empty.

I closed the book with a quiet sigh and crawled into bed, pulling the blankets up to my chin.

The house was quiet—eerily quiet. I could hear faint murmurs of the TV downstairs and the occasional clink of a glass, but otherwise nothing.

Ethan hadn’t said a word to me all evening.

My parents… Well, they’d stopped saying much of anything to me weeks ago.

And now him too.

The boy who’d looked at me like I was something he couldn’t resist was suddenly looking at me like I was nothing.

I lay there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling as my chest tightened with a familiar, suffocating ache.

I hated how much it hurt.

I hated how much I missed him, even though he hadn’t really gone anywhere.

I hated that every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face.

His hands.

His lips.

I rolled onto my side, burying my face in the pillow, but the tears came anyway—slow at first, then faster, hotter.

A sob caught in my throat, muffled by the pillow, but I didn’t care.

It felt like the only thing I could do.

I stayed like that for what felt like hours, my fingers clutching at the sheets as my body shook quietly with the weight of it all.

And then, when my tears finally slowed, when exhaustion finally began to pull me under, I whispered his name into the darkness.

“Jaxon…”

It was barely more than a breath.

But it was enough to make my chest ache all over again.

I hated him for making me feel like this.

And I hated myself even more for wanting him anyway.

I dreamed of him that night.

Of his hands on my skin, warm and rough all at once. Of his mouth on mine, demanding and desperate.

In the dream, he didn’t pull away.

In the dream, he didn’t look at me like I was something he had to give up.

In the dream, he stayed.

When I woke in the morning, my cheeks were wet and my chest felt hollow, as though the dream had taken something from me I’d never get back.

But even then—lying there in the half-light of dawn—I couldn’t help whispering his name again.

Quiet.

Broken.

“Jaxon…”