Chapter 3
The party isn’t even good.
That’s what makes it worse.
Embarrassment hits when I realize I came anyway. Like proximity might fix something. Like watching him exist in the same room could undo what’s coming.
The apartment is hot. Too many bodies. Too much noise pretending to be joy.
Josh is there.
Sober.
Perfect posture. Button-down shirt. Sleeves rolled just enough to look intentional. He’s laughing with people I don’t know, like he belongs to them now. I notice his muscles through his shirt.
Isolation settles fast. I lean against the kitchen counter and nurse the same drink for twenty minutes.
Someone bumps into me. Apologizes. Looks past me.
Small connection sparks when Josh’s eyes finally find mine across the room.
It’s brief.
Charged.
Gone.
I look away first.
That costs me something.
His father walks in.
The room shifts. People straighten. Voices lower. He’s tall. Calm. Smiling like he’s evaluating a space he already owns.
Josh stiffens instantly. The laughter drains out of him like it was never real.
Embarrassment burns my face. I’m suddenly aware of how close I am. How visible.
His father spots me watching.
He walks over.
“Chloe, right?” he says easily, like he’s always known my name.
I nod.
“We’ve heard so much about you,” he continues. Not unkind. Not warm either.
Josh appears at his side. Silent. Controlled.
Isolation wraps tight. I’m not part of this conversation. I’m a topic.
Small connection tries to survive when Josh’s arm brushes mine. A warning. Or an apology.
Betrayal lands when his father smiles at him.
“We’ll talk later,” he says. “You’ve got an early morning.”
Josh nods.
Doesn’t look at me.
The next letter is different.
Shorter. Careful.
I’m sorry you had to see that.
He leaves tomorrow.
Embarrassment creeps in. Like I should’ve known better than to be there. Like I crossed an invisible line.
Isolation grows when I realize he’s already halfway gone.
Small connection clings to the page.
I don’t regret writing to you.
I press the paper to my chest.
But I don’t know how to want two things that cancel each other out.
The last week is quiet.
Too quiet.
We still write. But the letters shrink. Edges sanded down. Like we’re both trying to make it hurt less.
Embarrassment becomes internal now. I catch myself memorizing his handwriting. His phrasing. Like I’ll need it later.
Silence waits for me in my dorm room every night. I sit on the floor. Read old letters. Reorder them. Fold them differently.
Small connection flickers one last time on Sunday night.
A knock.
My heart slams into my ribs.
It’s Josh.
Standing in the hallway. Backpack at his feet. Eyes wrecked.
“I didn’t want to leave without seeing you,” he says.
I’m in sweatpants. Hair pulled back. Too real.
Isolation threatens when I realize this is it.
We stand too close. Breathing the same air. His perfect skin glowing in the light.
“I wanted to kiss you,” he says quietly. “Sober. On purpose.”
My throat tightens.
“I didn’t,” he adds quickly. “I didn’t think that was fair.”
I feel the space between us.
Because fairness doesn’t make this hurt less.
“I’ll write,” he says.
I nod.
He picks up his bag.
At the end of the hall, he stops. Turns back.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, “this mattered.”
Then he’s gone.
And the hallway feels longer than it ever has.
That night, I just sit on my bed and stare at the door.
At the place where letters used to appear.
At the quiet he warned me about.
And I realize something I don’t want to admit yet.
Writing didn’t protect us.
It just made us honest enough to get hurt. So real. So soon.
I imagine us together. Intimate. Touching his chest.
I imagine us married. In a white cottage house by a lake with kids and shards of light beaming down on us through ancient oak trees.
And I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for that.
How do I come back from this.
What if Josh was the one.
