The boba shop smelled like sugar and summer break. Sticky floors. Pale neon lights. That same synth-pop playlist that looped endlessly through the speakers like the store didn't know any other moods.
Milo ordered first—brown sugar milk tea, extra boba, no ice. Confident, like he'd been here a thousand times. I stared at the menu like it was a calculus problem.
"Get the lychee," Milo said, nudging my arm with his elbow. "It fits your whole… thing."
"My thing?"
"You know," he said, flashing that soccer-captain grin. "Vaguely intimidating, definitely smarter than me, probably listens to indie playlists titled vengeful but soft." Despite myself, I let out a small laugh. "You're not wrong."
He winked. "I never am." I ordered the lychee.
We sat in a booth near the window, the late-afternoon sun casting lazy gold patterns across the table. Outside, the world kept moving. Cars honked. Kids biked past. Somewhere, a dog barked. Inside, it felt like a pause button had been pressed on everything I didn't want to deal with.
We talked. Kind of.
He asked about chem class. I changed the subject. He teased me about being "scary competitive." I rolled my eyes but didn't deny it. It was easy. Simple. But it didn't click.
Not like I thought it would.
Because halfway through my drink, my phone buzzed with a grade notification. My heart jumped. I checked it.
Chemistry Lab Report: 87%.
Not bad. Not bad for most people.
But I'm not most people.
And I knew—I knew—that the only reason it wasn't higher was because I hadn't double-checked Jordan's numbers. Hadn't talked. Hadn't collaborated. Had just moved through the motions trying furiously to ignore his heavy stare.
I used to care about that. About winning. About being excellent.
Now? Now I was skipping class and drinking lychee sugar bombs with a boy I didn't even really like.
I took a sip. Too sweet. The tapioca pearls clumped at the bottom.
Milo was saying something about a teammate who'd shaved his head after a bet gone wrong, but I barely heard him. My brain was somewhere else—back in chem, back in that dumb window, back in the place where Jordan had looked at me like I was more than chaos. And I hated that. I hated that he still lived in the corners of my thoughts like an unpaid tenant.
"You okay?" Milo asked. I blinked. "Yeah. Just spaced." He nodded slowly. "You sure this is what you wanna be doing right now?"
The question caught me off guard. I opened my mouth, closed it again. Because no. I didn't know.
I didn't know if I was here to prove a point or escape one. Didn't know if I liked Milo or just liked that Jordan hated him. I didn't know if any of this was real, or if I was just running in circles, trying not to look too closely at the mess I'd made.
I glanced down at my drink. Lychee. Sweet. Sticky. Regretful. "I should get home," I said, pushing the cup away.
Milo didn't look surprised. "Want a ride?"
"No. I need to clear my head."
He nodded. Didn't press. Just smiled a little, then added, "If he screws up again, let me know. I'll fight him."
That actually made me laugh. "Thanks. I'll keep you on standby."
We walked out together, but I went the other way down the sidewalk. Alone. And for the first time in days, I felt something that wasn't anger.
I felt tired.
Tired of fighting. Tired of pretending. Tired of pushing people away just to prove I could. Because the truth was—Jordan hurt me. But I was starting to wonder if I was hurting myself just as much. And that? That might be the part I regret the most.
~~~~
I didn't expect anyone to be home.
The lights were off when I walked in, the house quiet except for the familiar hum of the fridge and the creak of the floorboards under my shoes. I slipped off my jacket, planning to sneak upstairs and pretend the day hadn't happened.
Then I heard the voice from the kitchen.
"You're home early."
I jumped. "Mom?"
She stood by the sink, mug in hand, hair up in a loose bun. She wasn't supposed to be back from her conference until tomorrow.
"Got in early," she said. "Flight was ahead of schedule. What's your excuse?"
I shrugged, trying to pass by without making it a thing. "Boba wasn't that great."
She tilted her head. "And yet you came home looking like you just broke up with someone you weren't even dating."
I froze mid-step.
She set her mug down. "Elyse." I turned. "What?"
She gave me that look. The one that saw too much. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Nope."
She raised her eyebrows like she didn't believe that for a second. "Is this about the Gallagher boy?" Of course she knew. Moms always know. "I don't want to talk about him either," I said, quieter now. She paused, like she was measuring her words. "Okay. But can I say something? And you don't have to answer. Just listen." I sighed. "Fine."
She leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You've always been good at protecting yourself. That's your thing. You build walls fast and high, and you don't let anyone close enough to throw a punch."
"I wonder where I got that from," I muttered.
She smiled—just barely. "Probably me. But here's the thing. Sometimes you're not protecting yourself. Sometimes you're just pushing people away so you get to be the one who leaves first."
That landed like a weight in my chest.
She continued. "That boy… whatever he did, however stupid it was… I saw the way you lit up after chem class some days. You liked being around him. Don't throw that away just to prove you don't care." I swallowed. Hard.
"I do care," I said, barely audible.
She softened. "Then be brave enough to admit it. You don't have to forgive him right away. But don't pretend you feel nothing just because it's safer."
My throat felt tight. I didn't have a clever comeback. For once.
She reached for her mug again. "Anyway. I'm heating up leftover pasta if you want some."
And just like that, the conversation was over. Because that's how my mom worked. She said what needed to be said, then gave me space to figure out what to do with it. Even after we fought it was like she knew it needed to happen, and left it at that.
I stood in the hallway for a long moment. Then I turned, walked upstairs, and stared at the sketch Jordan had drawn—still tucked into the back of my notebook.
Observation: volatile when provoked. Still mesmerizing.
I pressed the page flat. Read it again.
And for the first time in days, I want to didn't tear it up.
~~~~
Jordan Gallagher
My thumb hovered over her name in my contacts for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. I knew I shouldn't call. I knew she'd ignore it. But the silence was killing me. I just needed to hear her voice, even if it was just a voicemail.
So I pressed the call button.
It rang once. Twice.
Then her voicemail picked up. "Hey, it's Elyse, leave a message and I'll get back to you," she laughs slightly in the recording, a mesmerising sound.
Beep.
"Hey, Elyse, it's… uh, it's me. I—"
I swallowed the lump in my throat. Tried to sound casual.
"I just wanted to say sorry. For everything. Not that you'll listen or care. I'm probably just annoying the hell out of you."
I laughed bitterly, shaking my head.
"Yeah, you're probably right. Why would you even pick up? Or answer? Or text back? You don't have to. I get it. You're mad. You should be. I'm—"
My voice cracked.
I stopped, heart pounding.
I heard the beep.
Oh shit.
I'd left her that. All of it.
There was no going back now.
~~~~
Elyse Gates
My phone rang from my bed. I glanced at the caller ID as I towel dried my hair.
Blocked number.
Huh. I let it ring and go to voicemail as I pull on an oversized sweatshirt and pajama shorts.
A notification rang throughout my room. I debated ignoring it. But curiosity got the best of me. I checked it.
New voicemail.
I press play.
"Hey, Elyse, it's… uh, it's me. I—"
Jordan. He sounded vulnerable. Messy.
"I just wanted to say sorry. For everything. Not that you'll listen or care. I'm probably just annoying the hell out of you."
I felt the sting of all the times he'd hurt me—words he'd said, jokes he'd made. But now?Now I heard something different.
"Yeah, you're probably right. Why would you even pick up? Or answer? Or text back? You don't have to. I get it. You're mad. You should be. I'm—"
His voice broke.
I held my breath, heart squeezing tight. And then silence.
Beep.
I sat still, phone in hand, replaying it. Once, twice, I end up listening to it over and over. He sounded like he was drowning in regret. Like he wasn't sure if I'd ever forgive him—or even listen. And maybe, just maybe, I didn't want to hang up on him this time.
~~~~
Elyse Gates
I didn't mean to call him.
I really didn't.
My thumb just hovered there too long over his name in my recents. My pulse picked up like it always did when I thought of him. And then… I tapped it.
The line rang once.
Twice.
"Elyse?" His voice came fast, breathless. Like he wanted it to be me.
Panic kicked in. I hung up. I stared at my phone like it had betrayed me. Or maybe like I'd betrayed myself. Why did I do that? Why was I still so tangled up in someone who had been careless with me? I threw my phone across the bed and paced. One loop. Two.
Then it buzzed.
New Voicemail.
I stood still, air tight in my lungs. I didn't even know if I wanted to hear it.
But of course I did.
I grabbed the phone and hit play.
"I don't expect anything. I just needed you to know I meant it. That's all."
That was it. No drama. No begging. Just truth.
And it undid me.
Because I couldn't breathe around how much I did care. How much I hated caring. How tired I was of feeling like I'd built all these walls to protect myself—and still ended up bruised anyway. I sat on my bed. For one second. Then I stood back up.
This was stupid. This was reckless. This was very possibly insane.
But I was doing it.
Jordan Gallagher
I was lying on my bed, phone in hand, staring at the ceiling like it held the secrets to the universe.
She called me.
One word. "Elyse?" And then she was gone. Just silence and the deafening reminder that I'd screwed up was the only thing that made sense to me lately. I left the voicemail anyway. Not because I thought it would fix anything—but because if I didn't say it, I'd feel like a coward.
And then I heard it.
A tap.
At my window.
I shot up, heart slamming.
There she was.
Elyse Gates. Standing on my roof. Wind blowing her hair across her face. Wide eyes. Barefoot.
She knocked again, arms crossed tight like she was either freezing or furious or both.
I scrambled to the window and unlatched it. "What are you—"
"Shut up," she said, climbing in, cheeks flushed, adrenaline obvious in every step. She stood in my room like it was the most natural thing in the world. I couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
Finally, she said, "I climbed the stupid tree." I blinked. "Yeah. I noticed."
Silence stretched. I didn't want to break it wrong. But then—
She looked at me with those God-forsaken blue eyes. Really looked. "You meant it?"
My voice came out rough. "Every word."
Her eyes flicked away for a second, then back. "Good. Because I'm done pretending I don't."
My brain short-circuited. "Don't what?"
She stepped forward, standing so close I could feel the static off her skin. Her voice dropped.
"Care."
I didn't breathe. Didn't blink.
Because Elyse Gates—the girl who roasted me daily, ignored me ruthlessly, hated me perfectly—was standing in my room admitting she cared.
And I swear, I'd never felt anything more like gravity.
For a second, neither of us moved. Like the air itself was waiting to see what happened next.
Then she sighed and sat on the edge of my bed like it was no big deal. Like she hadn't just shattered every unspoken rule between us by showing up.
I stayed standing, mostly because my legs didn't trust me to sit.
"Why now?" I finally asked.
She didn't look at me when she answered. "Because I've been angry for so long, I forgot what it felt like to actually feel something else. And your voicemail…" Her jaw clenched like she hated admitting it. "It felt real. And I—I've had enough fake."
I sat down beside her. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to want to. "I meant it, Elyse. All of it. I know I messed up. But I don't want to be the guy who says things too late anymore."
She looked over, eyes guarded. "So what? You want me to forgive you just because you had one emotionally sincere moment?"
"No." I shook my head. "I want you to forgive me if—if—you think I've changed. Or at least that I'm trying to."
Another silence.
Then she whispered, "It wasn't just the things you said. It's how easy it was for you to laugh about me. Like I was… just something to win." I swallowed. "I never meant it like that."
"But you did it," she said. "That's the part that still stings."
"I know." My voice cracked a little. "And I'll earn it back if it takes me the rest of my life."
"Really?" she said dryly, but her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile.
Hope fluttered—weak, but alive. She sighed and laying back on my bed. "You're so annoying."
"I get that a lot."
"I still want to strangle you sometimes."
"Totally fair."
"And I still haven't decided if I'm forgiving you."
I nodded. "You don't have to. Not yet."
She finally turned to look at me. This time, the edges of her eyes weren't sharp. "But I climbed the tree," she said softly.
I smiled. "You did."
"Which means I care."
"Yeah," I said. "It kind of does."
There was a pause. A breath.
Then she tilted her head, curious. "How long have you liked me?"
I blinked. "How long have I—uh, probably since the fire drill when you yelled at Mason and called him a human parking violation." She burst out laughing. "That was months ago."
"Yeah. I've been suffering in silence."
She nudged my shoulder. "Dramatic."
"I have layers."
"Like an onion?"
"Exactly like an onion."
We both laughed.
And for the first time in forever, it didn't feel tense. It didn't feel like we were circling a battlefield.
It felt… almost okay.