Chapter Text
Jeremiah doesn’t know why he kept taking French.
It started because of her — obviously. But that was another life. Before things fell apart. Before he became someone even he couldn’t recognize.
Now, it’s just a habit. Something he can still hold without it slipping through his fingers. French has rules. Conjugations. Structure. You say the right thing, it means what it’s supposed to. No guessing. No mind games. No heartbreak.
He needs that.
People don’t make sense.
She didn’t.
***
The day his mom died, the world didn’t stop.
That was his biggest betrayal.
The birds still chirped outside her hospital window. Nurses still came in with their soft voices and practiced smiles. Somewhere, someone ordered a pumpkin cream cold brew. Somewhere, someone posted a video of a dog dancing to Rihanna.
And he hated them. All of them. For breathing. For moving on. For existing like the world hadn’t just cracked in half.
Because for Jeremiah, it had.
The world ended with one breath — long, hollow, final. It didn’t sound peaceful. It sounded like surrender.
And that was it.
***
He held her hand all night. Refused to let go, even when the nurses tried. His fingers went numb, but that didn’t matter. He couldn’t feel anything anymore anyway.
He’d already cried — for weeks. In bathrooms. In the car. Walking barefoot down a Cousins sidewalk like he’d forgotten what sidewalks were for.
But not that day.
That day, he shut down.
***
The funeral comes back in flashes.
The weight of his jacket.
The stench of blue hydrangeas.
The way Conrad’s face barely moved.
The heat — too bright, too cheerful, like the sky didn’t understand grief.
And then Belly.
God Belly.
She promised to bring him food. Promised to take care of him. Said it was the least she could do — after everything. After what they were. After what they weren’t.
But then she snapped. Her voice sharp. Loud. Unforgiving.
At Conrad.
Like he wasn’t grieving too. Like Jeremiah wasn’t right there, watching the only family he had left tear into each other because their romantic relationship mattered more than his mother.
Jeremiah wanted to scream. At her. At Conrad. At all of them.
Because for once, he didn’t want to be the one patching it all back together.
This was the day, he thinks often, the day they all failed Susannah in their own twisted ways.
***
He tired of figuring things out.
But that’s all grief is: figuring out ce qui reste. What remains, after the worst has already happened.
For Jeremiah, not much did.
His mom is gone.
His best friend is a stranger.
Belly—
Well.
She’s not his, and he’s starting to realize maybe she was Conrad’s all along.
***
People think his relationship with Conrad got complicated because of Belly.
It didn’t.
It got complicated the day their dad left. When Conrad started disappearing into himself — quiet, locked doors, headphones always in. Jeremiah became the stable one. The peacekeeper. The glue. The boy who smiled when nothing was funny.
And, when Belly came back into their lives like she’d never left, it got worse.
Because it didn’t matter how many jokes Jeremiah cracked, how many nights he stayed up listening, how many promises he made — she always looked slightly past him.
Always toward Conrad.
Even when he didn’t deserve it.
Jeremiah never got to be the favorite. Not with her. Not even with Conrad.
***
The irony doesn’t escape him.
He’s fluent in French — the language she loved. The one she made feel like art. And still, if Belly walked up to him today and asked him how he felt — in any language — he wouldn’t know what the hell to say.
There’s no conjugation chart for I hate you but I miss you and I wish none of this ever happened.
***
Finch has changed him. He’s not the same person he was a year ago. That boy’s gone. Or buried beneath quiet resentment and sleeves that reach his wrists even when it’s hot outside.
Jeremiah Fisher used to smile so hard his cheeks hurt. Now, some mornings, he doesn’t remember what his laugh sounds like.
He goes to class. Hits the gym. Flirts when it’s convenient. Does everything he’s supposed to.
Living. Moving on. Letting go.
And he has. He’s let go of every piece of her.
Except French.
***
He signed up for Advanced French because it fit his schedule. Because it felt familiar. Because she once said he was good at it.
He doesn’t even like it — not really. But she did. She loved it. Made him watch grainy French films with no subtitles and bad lighting. Laughed whenever he mispronounced fromage. Pressed her hand against his shoulder when he got a verb tense right.
So yeah. He kept it.
Not for her.
(That’s what he tells himself.)
For him.
It’s the only thing she gave him that didn’t blow up in his face.
***
But it’s all bullshit, because the second he remembers…
She kissed him that summer.
Held his hand.
Danced with him like he was her safest place.
And then — Conrad.
Again.
A half-assed explanation. Just that numb, weightless silence. Like she knew he’d forgive her. Like she knew he’d take it.
She never even expected him to be angry.
Maybe that’s what shattered him the most.
Not the betrayal.
Not the kiss.
The fact that she looked at him like he was… disposable.
***
Tu me manques.
People say it means I miss you — but it doesn’t. Not really.
It means You are missing from me.
And fuck, does that feel true.
***
He tries not to think about prom. It’s pathetic.
But some nights, when sleep won’t come and his screen glows too bright in his hands, he thinks about it anyway.
She wore purple.
Conrad forgot the corsage.
She smiled through it — that smile she does when she’s barely holding on.
And then Conrad dumped her.
She should’ve seen it coming. Everyone did.
Jeremiah still believed, though. That he could be the better choice. The safer one. That if she just gave him the chance, he could be everything she needed.
What a fucking joke.
***
First day of class. French 301. Room 2C. Chalkboard. Old wood desks. Professor Dumas with the glasses chain and Parisian lipstick. He shows up ten minutes early and slides into a seat in the back.
Easier to stay unseen.
He pulls out his notebook. Scrolls through his phone. Tries to feel like this year will be different.
And then—
She walks in.
Hair longer. Sweater sleeves past her hands. A Finch lanyard brushing her chest. Calm. Composed. Like she isn’t unraveling his entire foundation just by existing in the same space.
Belly.
She goes right to the professor. Starts speaking fluent French like it’s her first language. Like she never left it — or him — behind.
His stomach twists.
Because this was his. The one thing he kept for himself.
And now she’s here.
And she’s better at it.
Of course she is.
She hasn’t seen him yet.
And he hopes she doesn’t.
Because if she does — if she looks at him — he might not be able to hide what’s still there.
And what isn’t anymore.