It's been five days since the results dropped, and I've checked my email exactly… way too many times.
At this point, I'm convinced there's someone out there—some exhausted admissions officer with coffee breath and a superiority complex—reading my file, sipping from a mug that says "In God We Trust, All Others Bring Data," and sighing dramatically every few seconds.
Meanwhile, I'm lying sideways on Alex's bed like I've melted into it, one leg dangling off the side like my patience, chewing on a pen cap I found in my backpack. I haven't written anything useful with it. I just like the chewing.
Alex is sitting across the room at his desk, sketching on his tablet. His face is scrunched in concentration, brows furrowed, mouth doing that little twitch thing like he's solving world peace with a stylus.
Then his phone buzzes.
He doesn't react at first. Just glances.
Then everything about him stills. Like when a video buffers mid-motion.
He puts the tablet down. Picks the phone up.
Walks out of the room.
And my stomach drops a little, because that's exactly how he reacted last time his dad messaged him.
I don't move. Just stay there, staring at the ceiling and imagining what the message said.
Two minutes later, he comes back in. Closes the door behind him a little too gently. Like the softness of it might soften the world.
He doesn't say anything. Just sinks into the bed beside me and lets out this quiet, sharp sigh like he's deflating from the inside out.
I roll onto my side, facing him. "You okay?"
He hands me the phone.
The message is short. Just a few sentences, but they feel like bricks.
"Saw your new post. Guess you're not hiding the boyfriend anymore. Also, Jordan stopped by—yeah, that Jordan. Thought you still lived here. I told him you're with that boy now. Figured someone should let him know."
I stare at the screen.
Then reread it.
Then look up at Alex, who is staring at the ceiling again like if he looks hard enough, it'll open up and suck him into another dimension.
"Wait," I say slowly. "Jordan… just showed up? At your dad's place?"
He nods.
"And your dad just casually told him where you live now? With me?"
He nods again, a little tighter this time. "Guess he thought it was funny. Or deserved."
My chest tightens. "You think Jordan's actually gonna come here?"
"I don't know," he says quietly. "Maybe."
"And your dad knew exactly what he was doing when he said that."
Alex doesn't answer, which is basically a yes.
I place his phone down on the nightstand and scoot closer, brushing my thumb across his cheek. "Hey. You don't have to go back there. To that energy. To that guilt."
He looks at me, finally. "It's just so exhausting. Every time I feel like I've put it behind me, he finds a way to loop me back in. Like I owe him updates on my happiness."
"You don't owe him anything," I say. "Least of all access."
He huffs. "Feels like I'm constantly fighting for the right to just… exist. Not even loudly. Just… here. Quietly."
I lean in, resting my forehead against his. "You shouldn't have to fight for peace."
He closes his eyes. "You make it easier. Being here with you."
"That's what babes are for," I whisper.
His eyes snap open. "No. Don't you dare."
"Babe," I say louder.
"Nick."
"Ba—"
He tackles me with a pillow and I go down laughing.
An hour later, we're in the kitchen. Alex is deep in his "gourmet instant ramen" phase again, arguing with me over whether garlic powder and scallions make it classy. (They do not.)
I'm perched on the counter, swinging my legs, texting Camila.
Me:
alex's dad is at it again
Me:
texted after seeing a post
Me:
and guess who randomly showed up at his house? jordan. yes. that jordan.
Me:
and then the man just… told jordan where alex lives now 😐
Camila:
WHAT
Camila:
that is so evil i'm dizzy
Camila:
like what kind of soap opera reunion is this???
Camila:
and jordan?? that boy who looked like a human airpod??
Me:
unfair to airpods
Camila:
omg ur right i apologize to the pods
Me:
alex didn't even react big. just… shut down. quietly.
Me:
i think that's worse sometimes
Camila:
yeah. that kind of tired isn't loud
Camila:
he's been carrying that weight for a long time
Camila:
you're good for him, you know?
Me:
i just don't wanna see him lose his peace
Me:
i wish i could protect it
Camila:
you can't protect it all
Camila:
but you can remind him it's real
Camila:
and help him rebuild it when people try to knock it down
Camila:
also tell him jordan better not show up unless he's bringing croissants and a formal apology
I laugh a little.
Alex glances up from the stove. "You okay?"
"Camila says if Jordan knocks on the door, he better be holding croissants."
Alex snorts. "Tell her he better also have kneepads for groveling."
Later that night, we're curled up in bed again, limbs tangled like a sleepy knot.
Neither of us brings up the message. Or Jordan. Or the lingering shadow of parents who still try to shape you long after you've grown.
But I feel his fingers thread through mine under the covers.
A quiet squeeze.
And I squeeze back.
Somewhere out there, my future is waiting in the form of an unread admissions email.
Somewhere else, Alex's past might show up at our door, uninvited.
But here, right now, between the weight of waiting and the fear of unwanted ghosts, there's a kind of safety I never imagined I'd feel with someone.
And maybe it's not perfect.
Maybe it never will be.
But in the small, steady rhythm of his breathing next to mine, I think—
This.
This is the life we're choosing, no matter who tries to rewrite it.
And I'm not letting go.