Chapter 2
I rewrite the first sentence six times.
Embarrassment keeps breaking my rhythm. Every version sounds like I’m apologizing for something I didn’t do. Like I’m inviting something I don’t know how to survive.
I rip the page out. Crumple it. Try again.
Isolation settles in hard once it’s dark. My roommate is out. The hallway noise fades. It’s just me, the desk lamp, and the letter sitting open like it’s watching.
I finally write without thinking.
Josh,
I don’t think you’re a bad person.
That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.
I stop. Stare. Add more.
You were drunk. That doesn’t excuse it, but it explains it.
I wasn’t scared. Just surprised.
My pen hesitates.
I like you too.
There it is. Small connection, even on paper. It makes my chest ache just seeing it written down.
I don’t explain why. I don’t soften it. I don’t take it back.
I don’t know what we’re supposed to do with that.
I fold the letter before I can second-guess myself. Slide it under his door at 1:07 a.m., heart hammering so loud I’m sure someone will hear.
I don’t wait to see if the light turns on.
Josh doesn’t talk to me the next day.
Not in class. Not in the hallway. Not when our paths cross outside the library and we both pretend to be deeply invested in our phones.
Embarrassment creeps up my neck. Did I say too much? Too little? The wrong thing?
Isolation sharpens when I realize how visible he still is. People gravitate toward him. Ask him questions. Laugh at things he says quietly.
He looks untouchable again.Josh doesn’t talk to me the next day.
Not in class. Not in the hallway. Not when our paths cross outside the library and we both pretend to be deeply invested in our phones.
Embarrassment creeps up my neck. Did I say too much? Too little? The wrong thing?
Isolation sharpens when I realize how visible he still is. People gravitate toward him. Ask him questions. Laugh at things he says quietly.
He looks untouchable again.
At 6:43 p.m., there’s a new envelope under my door.
My name. Same careful handwriting.
I lock the door before opening it.
Thank you for writing back.
Short. Controlled. Like he’s afraid of saying too much.
I reread your letter three times before I believed it was real.
My throat tightens.
I don’t know what to do either. I just know I don’t want to stop writing to you.
Small connection pulses stronger this time. Less tentative.
I won’t touch you again. I promise.
I won’t embarrass you. I promise.
Betrayal slices through that last line.
Because the damage is already done. He knows it. I know it.
I write back immediately.
The letters become routine faster than they should.
Every night. Sometimes twice. We slide them under doors. Leave them taped inside library books. Fold them into notebooks like secrets that pretend they aren’t dangerous.
We don’t sit together in class.
Embarrassment keeps that boundary firm. People already noticed the party. They don’t need more material.
Isolation lives in the space between us. Three rows. An aisle. A whole performance of not-looking.
Small connection thrives anyway.
He writes about his mission. About rules he agreed to before he understood them. About his father’s voice being louder than his own.
I write about being invisible unless I’m useful. About how people decide who I am before asking.
He never interrupts. Never corrects. Just listens on paper.
The betrayal comes on a Thursday.
I’m in the student center when I hear it.
Josh’s name. Whispered. Charged.
“His dad’s coming.”
“Like, coming coming.”
“Yeah. He’s being sent out again.”
My stomach drops.
I don’t read his letter that night.
He writes anyway.
My father thinks I’m losing focus.
He thinks distance will help.
Embarrassment crawls through me. Like I should’ve known better. Like this was always temporary and I let myself pretend otherwise.
Isolation hits when I realize there’s nothing I can do. I don’t exist in this decision.
Small connection cracks through when he adds:
I didn’t tell him about you.
I don’t want you turned into a lesson.
Betrayal lands hard at the end.
I leave in three weeks.
I stare at the words until they blur.
Three weeks isn’t nothing.
Three weeks is just enough time to fall apart slowly.
I write back with shaking hands.
Do you want me to pretend this doesn’t matter?
I don’t sleep.
The reply comes the next afternoon.
No.
I want you to keep writing me like this matters.
My chest tightens.
Because it does.
Betrayal twists the knife.
Even if I leave.
I close my notebook.
For the first time since this started, I wonder if writing to him is saving us.
Or just making the ending hurt more.
And I don’t know which one scares me more.
