“You hit him?”
“I hit him.”
That was the echo in Ava’s head as the school bus screeched to a halt at the curb. Doors hissed open.
She stepped off the bus slowly, her boots hitting the concrete with a dull thud. And she felt it—immediately.
The shift.
The tension in the air was so sharp it might’ve sliced her open if she let it.
It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t mean peace—it meant people were watching. Waiting.
Students clustered around lockers, laughing like the night before hadn’t happened. Like a punch hadn’t stained her dress. Like whispers and stares hadn’t followed her out the door. But none of them dared to meet her eyes.
She kept her head high anyway, bag slung over one shoulder, walking like she owned the damn sidewalk. But inside, her chest was tight with something she couldn’t quite name. Not fear.
Not regret. Anticipation.
She could still feel it. The slap. The way her palm collided with his cheek, the sound ringing in the night like justice. The look on his face—the way it cracked him wide open, like she’d finally returned a piece of the pain he’d fed her for years.
And yet, her stomach churned.
Because she knew Jace Preston. And Jace Preston didn’t let things end like that.
She didn’t expect him to crawl. But she didn’t expect nothing either. And when the bell hadn’t even rung yet? That’s how she knew.
She turned the corner near the gym, headed toward the side lot. Something tugged at her. A chill. A warning.
And there he was. Waiting.
Leaning against the back wall, where the school dipped into shadow. Alone. Silent. Like a secret weapon waiting to be drawn.
His figure was outlined by the dim light behind the building, making his features look sharper, colder. But his eyes—those dark, red-rimmed eyes—told the real story.
He hadn’t slept. Maybe couldn’t. Maybe didn’t want to.
She stopped ten feet away, arms folded tightly across her chest.
“Say what you are dying to say,” she said flatly. Jace didn’t move. His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles white.
“You think I don’t care?” he snapped. “You think I’m just walking around doing this because I feel nothing?”
Ava didn’t flinch.
“I think you like the power,” she said. “I think hurting people makes you feel big. And now that I’m not scared, you don’t know what to do.”
He stepped forward once, breathing hard, like her words cracked something open.
“You don’t know anything about me.” His voice wavered, just slightly. Ava stared at him down.
“Then say something I don’t know. Something real. Not one of your rehearsed lines.”
Jace’s jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed. For a second, she thought he might finally speak—might give her something true. But then… nothing.
Just the same silence that always followed him when the mask slipped. Ava took a step forward, eyes locked on his.
“You’re scared,” she said, softer now. “You think if I see who you really are, I’ll laugh like everyone else did to me.”
His eyes darted away for half a second. That was all she needed.
“You’re afraid of what I see in you,” she said, each word slow and deliberate. “And that’s why you can’t say it. Because if you do, it’ll be real. And if it’s real, it’ll hurt.”
His fists opened slightly. Not enough to relax. But enough to notice.
He exhaled hard, like the breath had been held far too long.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he muttered. “Every single person is expecting something from you. And if you don’t deliver, they turn.”
His voice cracked like glass under pressure. “You play the role or you vanish.”
Ava tilted her head. “So you picked cruelty as your costume?”
He flinched like she’d hit him again. “It was easier,” he admitted. “People don’t ask questions when they’re scared of you.”
Her throat tightened—not out of sympathy, but recognition.
“No,” she said. “They just remember you forever. Like a scar.”
He looked at her then, really looked. “You think I don’t remember everything I said to you?” he asked. “Every joke? Every stare?”
Ava’s fingers twitched. “Remembering doesn’t fix it.”
His mouth tightened. “I know.”
What the hell? He knows my future self is stuck in this body? How is that possible?
“So you know, it’s me from the future stuck in my teenage body?” Ava asked hesitantly.
Jace nodded. “Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because… it’s me. I’m the one who opened the portal.”
Jace shifted his weight like he couldn’t decide whether to run or stay.
“What?!” Ava asked baffled.
“I’m the one who opened the portal. I wanted to make amends. Wanted to talk.”
“And you couldn’t do that with future me? What the hell Preston?!”
“The watchmaker said something about unheralded wounds or something.”
“So what now?” she asked. “You wanted to talk. Say it.”
He took another step forward, close enough now that she could see the rawness in his eyes.
“You make me feel things I don’t know how to name,” he said. “And when I’m around you, I hate who I used to be.”
She stared at him, the fury inside her stuttering beneath the weight of those words. But she didn’t let it melt her.
“Then be someone else,” she snapped. “Change.”
He laughed once, bitter and breathless. “Like it’s that easy.”
“It’s not,” she said. “But if you don’t try, then stop acting like you care.”
He looked away for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to ground himself.
“You think I’m the only monster in this story?” he asked, voice low.
“I do,” she said without hesitation. “Because I didn’t make this mess.”
Jace looked pained. “No, you just survived it.”
“Exactly,” Ava said. “That’s the difference between us. You caused damage. I carry it.”
The words felt like a stone lifted from her chest. She had spent so long aching under his shadow, she hadn’t realized how freeing it would be to say it out loud. Jace didn’t argue.
The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t heavy.
She turned to walk away, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. She didn’t expect him to follow. She didn’t want him to.
But the crunch of gravel behind her stopped her cold.
“Ava,” he said. She turned, slowly, ready for more excuses. Ready to shut him down.
Instead, he reached for her wrist—not harshly, not like before. His fingers closed around it gently, almost like a question. Her breath caught. His grip was firm, but not painful.
His eyes met hers—exhausted, haunted, bare. And then he spoke, voice low enough that only she could hear it. “I hate that you still matter.”