Semua Bab Denial before Surrender: Bab 1 - Bab 10

If you’d asked me then, I would’ve told you my life made sense. Not perfect, because nobody’s life at eighteen is perfect, no matter how polished it looks from the outside. But it made sense. I had grades good enough to keep my parents off my back most of the time, a clear plan for university, two friends who somehow balanced out the worst parts of me, and a girlfriend most guys at school would’ve sold a kidney to date. It was a good life. Or at least it looked like one.I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror at seven in the morning, trying to do something about my hair and failing in the way I always failed. Messy brown had apparently become my permanent state. No matter what I did, it never sat right. Too long at the front, too stubborn at the sides. I shoved my fingers through it, gave up, and reached for my glasses on the shelf.I only really needed them for reading, for screens, for long study sessions that made words start to blur together after an hour, but I liked havi

By Friday afternoon, I had already said no to Tara three times.The first no happened before homeroom, when she cornered me at my locker and informed me that “attendance was mandatory” in the tone of someone announcing military service.The second happened at lunch, when she sat on the edge of our table, stole half my sandwich, and told Clair that if she didn’t come, she was personally sabotaging Emily's social standing.The third happened after final period, when she physically blocked the library doors with both arms spread and declared that if I tried to spend another Friday evening with revision notes instead of actual people, she was going to start telling everyone I cried during advertisements.Which wasn’t true. Mostly. I shifted my bag higher on my shoulder and stared at her. “Move.”“No.”“Tara.”“Clifford.”“You’re five foot nothing. This isn’t a real obstacle.”She narrowed her eyes. “And yet here you are, stopped.”Behind her, Leonard adjusted the strap of his satchel and

The car ride home should’ve been easy. Clair was in a good mood, half turned toward me in the passenger seat with one leg tucked under herself, talking about who had worn what, who had embarrassed themselves and who was definitely hooking up with who by the look of it. She was bright and animated in that effortless way she had when a night had gone well for her. The windows were cracked just enough to let cold air in, and the streetlights kept sliding across her face in gold and shadow as I drove. I answered when I had to. Laughed in the right places. Kept both hands on the wheel because if I let go, I had the stupid, impossible feeling I might reach for something that wasn’t there. “You’re quiet,” she said eventually. “I’m tired.” “It’s not even midnight.” “I had to listen to Tara explain why dancing on tables should count as self expression. That takes years off a person’s life.” Clair laughe

By Thursday, I’d started making deals with myself. If I got through the morning without looking for Tyler in the cafeteria, I could listen to music instead of doing revision on the walk home. If I went an entire class without replaying the party in my head, I could skip one practice question in economics. If I made it to the end of the day without thinking I’m not gay like a prayer and a threat at the same time, then maybe I could stop acting like my own brain was some kind of enemy operation. None of the deals worked. By lunch, I’d already seen him twice. Once in the senior corridor, once across the courtyard through the library windows and both times my body had done the same awful thing where it recognised him before the rest of me had a chance to object. So by the time last period ended, I was already in a bad mood. Which was probably why I volunteered to go looking for the missing business studies textbook Mr. Calder s

Friday should have felt better. That was the worst part. I’d made it through the rest of the night after the shower without having a total breakdown, which, considering the circumstances, felt like an achievement. I got maybe three more hours of sleep in broken, miserable pieces. By morning I was exhausted enough that my thoughts felt padded over at the edges, slower and duller, and I told myself that was good. Maybe if I was tired enough, I’d stop reacting to everything like it was a crisis. I was wrong. The second I walked into school and saw a flyer for that night’s basketball game taped crookedly to the front office window, my stomach tightened. HOME GAME – SENIORS NIGHT – 7 PM Underneath the text was a grainy photo of the team from earlier in the season. Tyler was in the front row, arms folded, expression unreadable even in bad print. I looked away so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. “Wow,” Tara said from beside me.