Two days. That’s how long I’ve been avoiding my locker like it’s a crime scene. Because honestly? It might as well be. The scene of my dignity’s murder.
But I need my fucking chemistry book, and pretending it doesn’t exist isn’t exactly sustainable long-term strategy.
The hallway’s basically empty now. Bell rang five minutes ago, and everyone’s either in class or cutting. Perfect. No witnesses to whatever fresh hell awaits me behind door number 247.
I spin the combination. The metal creaks open.
And there it is. Another envelope.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Because apparently Luca Reyes thinks we’re living in some Victorian romance novel where heartfelt letters solve everything. Next he’ll probably send a fucking carrier pigeon.
I stare at the thing like it might bite me. Which, honestly, it probably will. Emotionally speaking.
But I’m already here. Already emotionally compromised. Might as well lean into the disaster.
I slide down the wall, sitting cross-legged on the gross linoleum like I’m about to perform surgery. Deep breath. Here we go.
Noah,
I owe you the truth. The full truth. No edits, no easy outs.
Well, that’s a promising start. Real Shakespeare vibes.
You asked me why I left, and I told you nothing. Not because I didn’t want to tell you. But because the truth made me feel like a coward. Because I am one.
Okay. Not what I expected. Keep reading, Noah.
The night before I broke up with you, my dad gave me an ultimatum. He found out. About us. About everything. And he told me I could either “fix the problem” or kiss my football scholarship goodbye. His exact words. Like you were something broken. Like you were a mistake.
The paper crinkles in my grip. Rage hits first—hot and immediate. Then this awful, hollow ache right behind my ribs.
His dad. Of course it was his fucking dad.
I said I wasn’t scared, remember? That I’d never be ashamed of you. That I’d fight. But I didn’t. I froze. I panicked. I folded.
I told myself I was protecting you. That if I disappeared, you wouldn’t have to deal with the fallout. But the truth is… I just didn’t know how to be brave when it finally mattered.
That line hits different. Cuts deeper. Because it’s honest in a way that makes my chest tight.
You made me want to be brave. I just couldn’t.
Shit.
I miss you. I miss your dumb movie rants. The way you fidget when you lie. The way you always talk like you’re trying not to talk too much. I miss everything. And if it’s too late, I get it. I deserve that.
But if there’s even a small part of you that still wants this—if you need to know I’m not done trying—then just… look up. One last time.
Final game. You’ll know where to find me.
–L
I fold the letter with hands that are definitely not steady. Not because I don’t believe him. But because I absolutely do.
“Jesus Christ on a cracker.”
Ezra’s voice comes from somewhere above me. I look up to find him reading over my shoulder like the nosy bastard he is.
“Did he finally grow a spine,” he says, “or just borrow yours?”
“He confessed. For real this time.”
“Let me guess. Now he wants you to come watch him be all heroic and tragic under the Friday night lights?”
“Something like that.” I wave the letter. “Final game. Says I’ll know where to find him.”
Ezra sighs like this is the most predictable shit he’s ever seen. “You going?”
Good question. Am I going? To the football game? To watch the boy who broke my heart play the sport that apparently matters more than I do?
“I don’t know,” I say finally. “It still hurts.”
“Of course it does. That’s what love does best—fuck you up.”
“I’m not sure I trust him yet.”
“You don’t have to trust him,” Ezra says, surprisingly gentle. “You just have to decide if you still care enough to show up.”
And there it is. The real question. Not whether I forgive him or whether he deserves another chance. Just whether I care enough to walk onto that field and look him in the eye.
I stand up, shoving the letter in my back pocket.
“You sure about this?” Ezra asks.
“Nope. But I’m doing it anyway.”
Because that’s the thing about love, isn’t it? It makes you do shit that logic would never approve of. Makes you walk across parking lots and through crowds and onto fields where you don’t belong.
The stadium’s already glowing in the distance. Music pumping. Crowd roaring. The whole Friday night lights circus in full swing.
I walk past the math wing. Past the broken vending machine. Past the spot where he kissed me like it was no big deal.
And then I walk straight out the front doors.
The field’s lit up like Christmas, all artificial grass and painted lines and teenage dreams playing out under a dome of light. I can see the team warming up, helmets gleaming, looking like gladiators or idiots depending on your perspective.
I don’t head for the bleachers. Don’t buy a ticket or find a seat.
I walk straight onto the field.
Because if Luca Reyes wants to have a conversation, we’re going to have it on my terms.