Chapter 1
Josh kisses me wrong.
Not sloppy.
Not forceful.
Just desperate enough that everyone notices.
The music drops at the exact second his mouth hits mine, like the universe wants witnesses. Someone whoops. Someone laughs. Someone pulls out a phone.
Embarrassment detonates in my chest.
I shove him back hard enough that he stumbles into the couch behind him. Beer sloshes over the rim of his cup and onto the floor. Onto his shoes.
“Josh,” I say. Too loud. “You’re drunk.”
Silence stretches. Not real silence. Party silence. The kind that pretends nothing important just happened.
Josh blinks at me like he’s trying to load the right version of himself. His cheeks are flushed. His jaw tight. His hand still half-raised, like he forgot to tell it to stop.
“I—” he starts.
Isolation hits him all at once. I can see it. The way people turn away just enough to pretend they didn’t watch him cross a line. The way no one steps in. No one helps.
I grab his wrist.
Not angry. Not gentle.
“Come on,” I say. “You need to lie down.”
Someone snorts.
Someone says my name like it’s entertainment.
Every step down the hallway costs me something. My reputation. His. The version of this night where nothing changes.
A small connection lives in the way he leans into me. Heavy. Trusting. Like I’m the only solid thing left in the room.
His dorm smells like detergent and old books. English major. Of course.
He sits on the bed without being told. Shoes still on. Eyes glassy. Classically handsome.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. Words tumbling. “I don’t do this. I don’t drink like this. I don’t—”
“I know,” I say. And I do. That’s the worst part.
I push him back onto the mattress. Grab the trash can. Set it beside his head.
“Sleep.”
He reaches for my sleeve.
The touch is light. Barely there. Like he’s asking permission even now.
“Chloe,” he says. My name sounds different in his mouth. Like he’s been practicing it alone. “I like you.”
My chest tightens.
“I shouldn’t,” he adds quickly. Panic creeping in. “I really shouldn’t.”
Betrayal slices clean and fast.
Not of me.
Of himself.
I peel his fingers away one by one. Tuck a blanket around his shoulders. Turn off the lamp. And place an apple and a glass of water by his bed.
At the door, he says my name again. Softer. Almost sober.
I don’t turn around.
The next morning, I wake up already tense.
Like my body knows before my brain catches up.
Embarrassment hits when I step into the hallway. Someone whispers. Someone smiles too wide. Someone asks if I “had fun last night.”
I lie. Automatically.
Isolation follows me through breakfast. Through class. Through the afternoon like a shadow I can’t shake.
Josh isn’t in English.
His seat is empty. Front row. Always front row. Notes color-coded. Pens lined up.
The professor doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.
Small connection flickers anyway. I open my notebook and find a folded piece of paper tucked inside. I didn’t put it there.
My name is written carefully across the front.
I don’t open it yet.
I wait until I’m alone. Until my door is locked. Until my phone is face-down on the desk like it can’t see me.
My hands shake when I unfold the paper.
Chloe,
I’m so sorry about last night.
Embarrassment burns fresh. Even on the page.
I crossed a line. I know that. I don’t expect forgiveness.
Isolation sits heavy between the sentences. Like he wrote this alone. Like it hurt.
The truth is I’ve liked you all semester. I didn’t plan to say anything. I didn’t want to want you.
My breath stutters.
I’m Mormon. I’m supposed to be better than this. Better than wanting someone I can’t have.
Small connection hums in the way his handwriting tightens, then loosens, like he almost stopped and then kept going anyway.
I won’t put you in an uncomfortable position again. I just couldn’t let silence be the only thing between us.
Betrayal lands at the end. Quiet. Devastating.
Please don’t feel like you have to respond.
I stare at the paper for a long time.
I think about knocking on his door. About saying something out loud where it can’t be edited. Where it can’t hide.
I don’t.
I pull my notebook toward me instead.
And I start writing back.
