All Chapters of My Bestfriend's Boy: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Ethan The second year was harder than the first. Not because of school—I was doing fine academically, my grades solid, my professors unremarkable. But because the numbness had worn off. The shock of losing Ava, of losing Mia, of losing the life I’d built—it had faded, and what was left was raw, aching, impossible to ignore. I’d spent the first year in survival mode. Go to class. Do the work. Sleep. Repeat. I didn’t let myself feel anything because feeling anything meant facing what I’d done. And I wasn’t ready for that. But you can’t outrun yourself forever. It happened on a Tuesday. I don’t remember what triggered it. Maybe a song on the radio. Maybe a girl with brown hair who laughed like Ava. Maybe nothing at all. But suddenly, I was sitting on the floor of my dorm room, my back against the bed, my head in my hands, and I couldn’t breathe. You destroyed her. You destroyed

Ethan Los Angeles hit me like a wave. Not the gentle kind you feel at the beach—the slow, rolling kind that rocks you to sleep. No, this was a rogue wave, the kind that comes out of nowhere and knocks you off your feet, tumbles you under, leaves you gasping for air and wondering which way is up. The heat was the first thing I noticed. It pressed against my skin the moment I stepped out of my car, dry and relentless, like the city itself was testing me. The second thing was the traffic—a ceaseless roar of engines and horns and the low thrum of freeways that never slept. And the third, the thing that hit me hardest, was the anonymity. No one knew me here. No one knew about Ava. No one knew about Mia. No one knew about the guilt I’d been carrying like a stone in my chest for years. I was just another face in a city of millions, and that was exactly what I needed.

Marcus I hadn’t seen Ethan in eight months. Not since his graduation, when we’d stood in the crowd and watched him cross the stage, his smile thin, his eyes hollow. He’d hugged me goodbye and promised to visit, but we both knew he wouldn’t. Not yet. He had too much running to do. But when Jake called and said, “He’s drawing. A lot. You should come,” I booked a flight. Los Angeles was everything I expected and nothing I wanted. Too bright, too loud, too many people moving too fast. I rented a car and drove to Echo Park, where Ethan’s apartment was hidden behind a taco shop and a laundromat. He answered the door in sweatpants and a faded T‑shirt, his hair longer than I remembered, his beard thicker. He looked older. More tired. But also… calmer. Like the sharp edges had been sanded down. “Marcus.” He stepped aside. “Come in.” The studio was small—one room with a bed, a desk, a

Ava Oliver Bennett was not the kind of man who demanded attention. He didn’t walk into a room and command it. He didn’t have the sharp jawline or the brooding intensity of the heroes in the novels I’d grown up reading. He was ordinary in the best way—steady, kind, present. The kind of man you noticed slowly, over time, until one day you realized you couldn’t imagine your life without him. I met him at book club, as I’d told Marcus. But the truth was more complicated. I’d noticed him before he ever spoke to me. He was always early to the meetings, always sitting in the same chair by the window, always reading something before anyone else arrived. He had a habit of marking up his paperbacks with pencil notes—observations, questions, small drawings in the margins. When he talked, he listened first. When he disagreed, he was gentle. I’d been in Seattle for three months, and I’d built walls around myself without e

AvaI found out about Ethan's art through a friend.Priya sent me the link with a string of crying emojis. You need to see this.I was sitting in my apartment, a cup of tea growing cold beside me, my laptop open to a half‑written chapter. The rain was tapping against the window, soft and persistent, the way Seattle rain always was.I clicked the link.The article was titled "The Tech Artist Drawing His Lost Love." There were photos of the gallery show—Ethan standing beside his work, looking vulnerable and raw. And there were photos of the drawings themselves.My heart stopped.They were me. Every version of me he'd ever known.There was me at the lake, my feet dangling over the water, my head tilted back in laughter. There was me reading a book, my brow furrowed in concentration. There was me sleeping, my hair spread across a pillow, my lips slightly parted. There was me looking out a window, my expression distant, thoughtful.I scrolled through the photos, my hands shaking. The capti