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1. Henry — Sick Days
If you asked Drew later what exactly tipped him off, he wouldn’t be able to tell you.
Maybe it was the way Henry’s hand shook a little when he tried to spin his pencil. Maybe it was the fact that he didn’t make a single dumb joke during the whole first period, not even when Mr. Carrow said "balls" by accident during the math lesson.
Maybe it was just the way the room felt wrong without Henry laughing.
Whatever it was, Drew knew something was off.
He kept glancing over at him during class, pretending to doodle while he watched Henry slump further and further into his chair. His skin — normally a warm, flushed brown — had a strange sheen to it. Not just pale. Sick. A little green around the edges, and not the kind of green that matched his stupid dyed hair.
Next to Drew, Liam kept checking too, sneaky little glances every time he thought Henry wasn’t looking.
Even Lia noticed. Maybe it was the fact that Henry hadn’t said a pick up line, or maybe she did care. But halfway through the period, she leaned back in her seat, flicking her eyes toward Drew like she was expecting him to do something. Like somehow, it was his job to fix it.
Drew stared back at her across the room, giving the smallest shrug he could manage without getting called out.
What did she want him to do? Stand up and carry Henry to the nurse's office like a firefighter?
The bell rang too loud, too sudden. Everyone shoved back their chairs, scraping wood against linoleum, talking loud enough to make Drew’s head hurt.
Henry didn’t move.
Drew watched him for a second — too long — until finally, he pushed his chair back and crossed the aisle.
"Yo." He nudged Henry’s desk with his knee. "You alive?"
Henry blinked up at him like it took effort.
"Yeah," he said. His voice cracked halfway through the word. "M'fine."
Bullshit.
Drew didn’t say anything. He just stayed there, standing awkwardly over him, long enough that Henry finally — finally — dragged himself up from the desk. His backpack slipped off his shoulder and hit the ground with a thud. Drew bent down to pick it up without thinking, tossing it at him like a basketball pass.
"Catch up with us at lunch, yeah?" Drew said, casual, but not really.
Henry caught the bag, barely. Managed a weak thumbs up.
-
Henry’s already at the table when Drew shows up.
He looks worse.
His tray has food on it — chips, sandwich, apple — untouched. He’s just sitting there, poking at the sandwich like it wronged him in a past life.
Liam’s next to him, not eating either. Playing with his juice box straw like it’s a puzzle he has to solve before dinner. Jake’s across the table, headphones half-on, eyes flicking up every few seconds.
No one says anything until Drew drops his tray on the table with a loud clatter. Henry flinches.
Drew sits. Hard. Looks across at Jake, who raises one eyebrow.
“What’s wrong with him?” Jake mouths.
Drew shrugs. “Ask him.”
Jake sighs and takes off his headphones. “Henry. Eat your sandwich.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You didn’t eat breakfast either,” Liam mutters.
Henry shrinks in on himself a little.
Drew kicks his foot under the table.
“Seriously,” he says, quieter this time. “Eat something.”
Henry doesn’t look up. He picks up a chip, stares at it like it’s a science experiment, then sets it down again.
Jake finally leans forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “If you puke, I’m not helping you.”
Henry doesn’t laugh. That’s what gets Drew the most.
He stands up, walks around the table, and pulls Henry’s bag out from under his chair.
“Come on,” he says, firm but not unkind.
Henry stares at him, confused.
“To the nurse.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’re not,” Jake says before Drew can.
Drew extends the bag. Henry stares at it for a second, then takes it slowly. He gets up, a little shaky, like gravity’s stronger than usual.
Jake watches them go without saying anything. Liam says, “Text if he barfs on you,” but his voice is soft, not teasing.
Henry leans into Drew a little as they walk, not enough to make it obvious, but enough that Drew adjusts his pace.
2. Liam — The Nail Polish
It’s late. Too late for homework, too early to sleep. Drew’s bedroom is lit only by a dim desk lamp and the red LED strip that runs along his bookshelf, casting everything in a low crimson hue that feels vaguely cinematic. Liam’s on the bed, barefoot, legs bouncing, while Drew sits cross-legged on the floor, one hand balancing the tiny bottle of black polish, the other holding a brush steady in the crook of Liam’s fingers.
“You really don’t have to do this,” Liam says, and he’s got that tone like it’s a joke, but quieter. His voice is off tonight, less sarcasm, more raw. Something about it pulls at Drew in a way he doesn’t want to admit.
“I know,” Drew says simply. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
He focuses on the brush, slow and methodical. Nail polish isn’t new to him, Zoey used to make him paint her toes on Sunday nights while she did face masks and told him about her drama, who was sleeping with who, what girl she hated now. But this feels different. This isn’t performative, it’s intimate. Quiet in a way most people don’t let themselves be.
Liam’s unusually still, too. Usually, he’d be saying something—mocking Drew’s concentration, threatening to put a foot in his face, narrating some horrible TikTok with way too much confidence. But tonight, he’s got this blank look, like his thoughts are somewhere far off. Drew glances up at him briefly.
“You okay?” he asks, not because he expects a straight answer, but because the silence is starting to say too much.
Liam shrugs, one shoulder rising, then falling. “Had to wipe off my last set,” he says eventually. “My dad came home early.”
Drew’s hand falters slightly, but the stroke stays clean.
“Yeah?”
“He said I looked like a little bitch.” Liam laughs, but it’s not real. Not really. “Said I should be hanging out with my mom if I wanted to dress like one.”
Drew doesn’t say anything at first. Just switches hands and steadies Liam’s other. He knows the words too well. Has heard versions of them enough times to know how deep they rot.
“Sounds like a prick,” he says eventually.
“He is,” Liam agrees, voice tight. “He doesn’t even live here most the time. Just drops in when he wants, acts like I’m his project. A little half-finished model airplane he keeps forgetting about until someone reminds him.”
Drew exhales, slow. “Sounds like my dad.”
Liam looks at him for the first time in a while. Really looks. Drew doesn’t offer more, but that’s kind of the point. There’s no competition in this, no one-upping, no trauma showcase. Just two guys with shitty fathers and nails that chip too easily.
Liam leans back on his palms, tilting his head toward the ceiling like he’s trying to drain the thoughts out.
“Remember when I used to do this every week,” he says. “New color every Friday. When we were freshman, I had this whole routine. Thought it made me cool. Or interesting. Or something.”
Drew hums low in his throat. He remembers.
“I had this one set that was neon green with black spiderwebs,” Liam continues. “Took me hours. Did it with toothpicks. I felt like the coolest fucking kid in the world.”
“What happened to them?” Drew asks, already knowing the answer.
Liam glances down. “Wiped ’em off in the boys’ bathroom the second my dad texted he was on his way. Had to scrub under my nails until they hurt.”
Drew doesn’t say anything to that. Doesn’t know what to say.
He thinks, vaguely, about the first time he met Liam.
It was the first year of middle school, and Drew had been the new kid, stiff and quiet in his oversized hoodie, trying not to look like he cared that no one was talking to him. Liam had barreled into art class late, announced he was “running on goblin time,” and sat down next to Drew like they’d been best friends since birth. Within five minutes, he’d accidentally-on-purpose smeared red paint all over Drew’s hoodie and declared it “an improvement.”
Drew had stared at him, horrified. Liam just laughed, loud and unbothered, and said, “Come on, now you look like you survived something cool.”
Drew wanted to punch him. Instead, he laughed too.
Back in the present, Drew finishes the last nail. He caps the bottle and sets the brush aside. Liam’s hands are open on his thighs, fingers stretched slightly.
“Gotta let them dry,” Drew says, voice low.
“I know.”
They’re quiet for a second, the hum of Drew’s new box fan droning in the corner.
“I wish I didn’t give a shit,” Liam says softly. “About what he thinks. About what any of them think. But I do.”
“Me too,” Drew says. “That’s the part that sucks.”
Liam laughs under his breath. “You don’t seem like you care.”
Drew doesn’t respond right away. He keeps his eyes on Liam’s hand, painting the last nail with precise, practiced strokes. Then he sits back and meets his gaze, expression unreadable, blank in a way that feels too rehearsed.
“I care so much it makes me want to punch walls,” Drew says quietly.
Liam studies him. There’s something serious in his usually-joking eyes, the kind of pause that makes Drew want to squirm. Instead, Liam asks, “You ever want to just… disappear?”
“Like, full blackout, fake my death, start over in Portland?”
Liam grins. “Exactly.”
There’s a silence between them that almost feels like agreement.
“Maybe we should,” Liam says, a little too sincerely.
Drew lets out a snort. “What? Get a cabin in the woods? You planning our witness protection arc already?”
Liam leans back dramatically, fluttering his lashes. “You’d get a high-paying job at a fancy firm. I’d be your doting housewife. We’d have passive-aggressive fights with the neighbors and watch Modern Family on our couch made of old dreams.”
Drew raises an eyebrow. “Modern Family? That’s the fantasy?”
Liam shrugs. “Ty Burrell heals all wounds.”
They both crack up at that, the tension diffusing, at least for now. But Drew doesn't forget the look Liam gave him before the joke, or the way it lingered just a bit too long.
The polish is dry now. Drew brushes one last finger over Liam’s knuckles, checking. “Good to go.”
Liam holds his hands up to the light, inspecting. “Damn. You’re good.”
“I’m always good.”
Liam sets his hands down. Looks at Drew. “Thanks.”
Drew shrugs. “It’s just paint.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
And they stay like that, bathed in red light and too many unspoken things, long after the music cuts out and the fan stops spinning.
3. Zoey — The Nurse’s Office
The nurse says it’s not that serious. A scratch. A hair pulled. Some light bruising, maybe. Nothing that warrants paperwork. Just two girls with too much to prove and not enough space to contain it.
Drew doesn’t say much as she talks. He just nods, then sits down beside Zoey, his knee bumping hers, the vinyl of the cot cold through the rip in his jeans. The nurse hands Zoey an ice pack that’s more a formality than a fix, and when she leaves the room with a mumbled, “I’ll be back in five,” it’s just the two of them. Again.
Zoey presses the pack to her temple with one hand, the other still clutching strands of magenta hair she ripped from Milly’s head. She hasn’t let them go. Drew notices that. Doesn’t mention it.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low. Careful. Like she’s something that might bite.
Zoey doesn’t answer at first. Just stares ahead, her jaw tight, her lips parted like she wants to say something but can’t. Eventually, she shrugs.
“She’s a psycho.”
Drew leans forward, elbows on his knees, and watches her. “You won, though.”
That gets a small smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes.
They sit in silence, the kind that’s familiar between them. Not quite comfortable, but worn-in. Like old shoes that hurt if you walk too far in them, but you wear them anyway because they look good.
He doesn’t touch her. That’s one of their unspoken rules. In public, they’re more performance than couple. But when it’s just them, when there’s no audience, no girls to impress or boys to intimidate, they let the silence mean something. He leans closer, just slightly. She doesn’t move away.
“You didn’t have to fight her,” he says.
“I wanted to.”
“Why?”
She finally turns to look at him, and for a second, her expression softens. “Because she said I think I’m better than everyone else.”
Drew snorts. “You do.”
“I am.”
He grins. “Exactly.”
She looks at him like she wants to laugh, but instead she rests the ice pack on her lap and leans her head back against the wall. Her mascara’s smudged, black half-moons under her eyes. Her ponytail’s coming undone. She looks tired. Real, in a way she never lets herself be.
“I’m not crazy, right?” she says suddenly. “She was coming at me.”
“You’re not crazy.”
“You’d tell me if I was.”
“Of course.”
And he means it. He always does. He thinks of himself as her anchor, the one person who doesn’t want anything from her except... her. Not the glitz, not the reputation, not the brand deals or curated moments. Just Zoey. But that’s a lie, isn’t it? He wants the idea of her. The power she radiates, the way she takes up space like she owns it, like she deserves to. He wants to stand next to her and glow in her reflection. He doesn’t say that part out loud.
Instead, he says, “You’re the only person I know who could get in a fight and still look like she’s on the cover of Vogue.”
Zoey smiles again. It’s the closest thing to soft she’s ever given him.
“You’re just saying that because you like me,” she teases, voice light again.
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
He does. Of course he does. Drew thinks about her constantly, when she’s not around, when she is, when she’s posting a picture with someone else or ignoring his texts for twelve hours straight. He tells himself she’s busy. That’s just how she is. That she’s teaching him independence, not distance.
Zoey’s still holding the strands of Milly’s hair. She twists them between her fingers like string, knotting and unknotting. “She’s jealous,” she says.
“Everyone is.”
Zoey leans her head against his shoulder. Just briefly. But enough to make his breath catch in his throat.
“You think we’ll stay like this?” she asks, and her voice is strange. Not dreamy, not serious. Just curious. Like she’s asking about the weather or next week’s math test.
“Like what?”
“Us. Together.”
Drew swallows. “Yeah. I think so.”
He does. Or wants to. Or needs to.
Zoey nods, like that was the answer she wanted. But then she sits up, pulls her ponytail tighter, and stands. “My mom’s picking me up.”
Drew stands, too. “You want me to come with?”
“No,” she says quickly. Then softens it: “You should go back to class.”
He nods. Doesn’t argue. They don’t hug goodbye. They never do.
But she turns back before she opens the door. “Thanks for staying.”
“Anytime,” Drew says, and he means it more than he should.
She leaves, and the room feels colder.
He sits back down on the cot, staring at the space where she was. The ice pack’s still there. A wet mark forming on the sheet beneath it. He picks it up, turning it over in his hand, and for a second, he lets himself believe it meant something. That she needs him the way he needs her. That this is love. That they’re building something real.
Later, he’ll tell himself this was one of the good days. That this is what a good relationship looks like. That loyalty and silence and showing up count more than warmth or kindness or being understood.
But right now, he just clutches the melting ice pack and waits until the bell rings.
4. Lia — The Party
The party is too loud. Too many people crammed into one house, pretending they care what anyone else has to say. Drew’s already tuned out some guy from homeroom who's been talking for the past ten minutes about how "real" music is dead and how he’s going to revive it with his EP. Drew nods when he thinks it’s expected of him and sips on a cup of punch that he has no intention of drinking.
He knows where the exits are. That’s the kind of thing you learn from growing up rich and miserable, how to leave without making a scene. He doesn’t like crowds, doesn’t like people, doesn’t like pretending he does. He’s only here because Zoey said she wanted to show face and then disappeared with a blonde who smells like peach vape and sugar rot.
He should leave.
But then he sees her.
Lia.
Her curls catch the light like a halo — frizzed at the edges from sweat and too much dancing, maybe. She’s talking to a guy Drew doesn't recognize. Tall. Confident. Too confident. The kind of guy who gets off on pretending he’s charming when he’s really just persistent. His hand is braced against the wall beside Lia’s head, and even from across the room, Drew can see the unease in her body. The stiff posture. The tightness in her jaw. Her laugh is brittle.
She’s drunk. Not wasted, but loose enough to let her guard down. The guy must smell that.
Drew’s already walking before he makes a conscious choice.
Because it’s not safe. Because Zoey isn’t here. Because Jake should’ve come. Because someone should be watching her, and somehow, it ends up being him.
Because Jake should’ve been here.
Lia asked him. And asked. And asked. Drew had watched it happen in real time—Jake brushing her off in that quiet, vague way of his. "I’ve got rehearsal." "I’ll see how I feel." "Maybe."
Jake used to show up for things.
Used to laugh with them, stay up until 3AM talking about stupid movies and the way life felt like it was about to bloom into something real. Now he spends all his time with the music club. People Drew doesn’t know. People who don’t know Jake the way they do. Or did.
Jake used to call Drew his best friend. He used to sit at lunch with them. Now Drew can’t even tell if they’re close or just a memory Jake hasn’t deleted yet.
Lia hadn’t gotten the hint. Or maybe she did, and just kept hoping.
There’s a small part of Drew—nasty and petty and honest—that hates Jake for that. Not for leaving, but for dragging it out. For giving Lia just enough warmth to stay hopeful, and then disappearing when it mattered.
Drew steps in.
Taps the guy on the shoulder, says, “She’s with me.”
The guy backs off with a smirk like he’s doing Drew a favor, and Lia exhales slowly, like a balloon losing air.
She doesn’t thank him right away. She just leans on the wall for support and looks away, embarrassed.
“He was getting weird,” she says.
“I know,” Drew replies.
He doesn’t say, I saw it.
Doesn’t say, I shouldn’t have been the one to step in.
Doesn’t say, Zoey should have been here.
They end up sitting outside on the curb, the cool night air biting at their skin. Drew offered his jacket without thinking. Lia wrapped it around herself like armor.
She sighs. “I told him this party was important to me.”
“Jake?” Drew asks, even though he already knows.
She nods. “I didn’t even need him to stay. Just to show up.”
“He’s been... distant.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Since, like, forever.”
Neither of them say it, but the truth sits between them like a third person.
Jake doesn’t talk to Lia anymore. Not really. Not the way he used to. He doesn’t smile when she enters the room, doesn’t listen with that intense kind of focus she used to mistake for affection. Drew knows Jake. Knows how he shuts down when he’s overwhelmed. Knows how the music club gave him a purpose when everything else felt like static.
But still.
Jake could’ve come.
He didn’t.
“Do you think he knows?” Lia asks suddenly.
Drew blinks. “Knows what?”
“That I... That I like him.”
Silence.
Then, “Probably.”
She lets out a hollow laugh. “Figures.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know what to do with it,” Drew offers. “Jake’s not exactly a genius when it comes to feelings.”
“Yeah. And you are?”
Drew smirks. “Definitely not.”
She leans her head against his shoulder, tired now. Not from the party, but from everything else. From caring too much. From not being chosen.
“He used to laugh at my jokes,” she murmurs.
“He still thinks you’re funny.”
“He thinks you’re funny,” she mumbles. “He still talks to you.”
Drew doesn’t respond to that.
Because he’s not sure Jake really does. Not in the same way. Not like they used to. Their friendship feels like a house with half the lights off. Still standing, but quieter now. He misses it. But he’s not supposed to say that.
“Maybe we’re all just getting replaced,” Lia says, voice distant.
“Maybe,” Drew says. Then, “Or maybe Jake’s just scared he’s not enough anymore.”
Lia frowns. “That’s a dumb reason.”
Drew nods. “Yeah. But it’s Jake.”
A beat passes. Then she asks, “Why did you come get me?”
And it’s a loaded question. Because what she’s really asking is, Why do you care? Why is it you and not him?
“I don’t know,” he says. “It just felt wrong to leave you like that.”
She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t have to.
She just leans a little heavier against him. And for one moment, in all the noise and static of their broken connections, it feels like they’re both grieving the same ghost.
Jake.
The version of him that laughed with them. Talked late into the night. Made them feel like they were his people.
They don’t say it, but they both know.
Jake isn’t coming back the way he was.
And they’re both still waiting anyway.
Jake - (???)
It’s 2 AM, and the room is quieter than usual.
Henry and Liam have long since passed out, their tangled limbs sprawled across the couch in a half-hearted attempt at sleep. Drew lies on the floor, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling with no real focus. He’s not tired. Not really. But there’s this tightness in his chest that he can’t quite shake tonight. He should be sleeping, or at least pretending to. But sleep feels impossible with everything sitting heavy in his gut.
Jake’s lying next to him, just as awake. Drew can feel his presence more acutely tonight, even though Jake is silent, lost in his own thoughts. The thing is, Drew doesn’t know what’s going on inside Jake’s head anymore. Not like he used to. There’s something about the way Jake’s been pulling away lately, too wrapped up in the music club, too lost in the competition, that makes Drew feel like a stranger to him.
The worst part is, Jake’s not even pretending. He’s fully into it now, absorbed in it like Drew’s always been afraid he would be. And Drew? Drew’s just here, lying on the floor, not knowing how to bridge that growing gap between them.
He can’t exactly say when it all started. One minute, Jake was the guy who stayed up late, grumbling about the music club and how stupid it was. The next, he was fully entrenched in it, helping write songs for a competition he’d never even cared about before. Drew had assumed it was a phase, something he’d get over. But now? Drew’s not so sure.
Drew rolls his eyes and shifts slightly. He’s getting too worked up over nothing. Probably. Jake’s still his friend. That’s something, right?
And then, of course, Jake speaks.
“I’ve been helping write a song for the competition,” he says, the words slipping out so casually that Drew almost doesn’t register them at first. But when he does, his heart gives an uncomfortable lurch. He thought it was just about the competition. He thought Jake was doing it for Daisy—he’d convinced Drew of that, after all. "I just want to impress her," Jake had said when Drew asked about it. That’s what Jake told him the first time Drew caught wind of the music club.
It had seemed innocent enough then. Like a dumb teenage crush. But now Drew’s not so sure. Jake’s invested in this thing, and Drew knows it’s more than just trying to impress some girl. The way Jake’s been pouring his energy into it... it’s more than that.
Drew forces a neutral expression. “What about?” he asks, his voice steady, betraying none of the weird tension twisting in his stomach.
Jake hesitates for a moment, his fingers tapping the side of his thigh, as if searching for the right words. Drew can feel Jake’s gaze shift to the ceiling, the way his thoughts seem to spiral inward, like he’s lost in some private world Drew’s no longer a part of. Jake’s been doing that a lot lately, disappearing into his own head. Drew can’t exactly blame him; he’s been doing the same thing.
“Just…” Jake exhales, his voice quieter now. “Just trying to get it right, I guess. You know, the song’s important.”
Drew nods, though he’s not sure he really understands what Jake means anymore. He wants to ask more questions, press him on it, but something holds him back. The moment feels fragile, like he could break something if he presses too hard. Instead, he lets the conversation float for a while, pretending that things are fine.
But the truth is, it’s harder now. There’s so much Drew doesn’t know. So much Jake’s keeping to himself. And Drew can feel the distance.
He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but before he can, Jake continues.
“I think it’s about... holding on to something when everything feels like it’s falling apart,” Jake says, his voice low, a little rough around the edges. Drew’s mind starts to wander as Jake talks. The words are soft but loaded. It’s obvious Jake’s not just talking about the song anymore. It’s about more than that. Drew knows it, but he’s not sure he can reach him.
It’s then that the truth clicks, like a sudden shift in the air. Jake’s not just writing this song for the competition. He’s writing it because he needs it. Because he’s trying to hold on to something he doesn’t want to lose, something that Drew doesn’t fully understand yet.
And that’s the thing that stings, isn’t it? Jake’s not doing this to impress Daisy anymore. He’s doing it because he’s found something in the music club. A place where he belongs. A place where he’s been accepted in ways Drew didn’t even know Jake was missing. Drew thought he knew everything about his best friend, but Jake’s been keeping so much from him lately. The music, the late nights, the rehearsals, it’s all consuming him, and Drew’s just standing here, waiting for him to notice.
There’s a flicker of doubt that rises in Drew’s chest. Jake never said anything about this before. He never mentioned how much the music club meant to him, how he felt like he’d finally found a place to exist. Not until now. Drew doesn’t know what to do with that.
But instead of saying anything about it, he swallows the lump in his throat. There’s a part of him that wants to be angry, wants to shout at Jake for getting lost in this thing, for pulling away. But another part of him just feels... sad. Because it’s not just about Jake. It’s about Drew, too. Drew’s standing here, realizing that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have a place in Jake’s life anymore.
He takes a breath and forces a smile, even though it feels hollow. “Sounds like you’ve got a lot riding on this,” Drew says, trying to make it sound casual. Like he’s not bothered. Like he’s not fighting the urge to lash out.
Jake looks over at him, a small, faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, I guess. It’s just... I really want to make it count, you know?”
Drew nods, though inside, something is breaking. “I get it. You’ve always been like that. You go all in.”
Jake falls silent, and Drew can hear the faint sound of his breathing, the quiet hum of the world around them. He wants to reach out, to say something else, but he doesn’t know what. He doesn’t know what’s going on with Jake anymore. Doesn’t know how to reach him.
But then Jake speaks again, and for a moment, Drew doesn’t even register what he’s saying.
“The thing is,” Jake continues, “I didn’t expect to get... so into it. The music club, I mean. I thought it was just a way to impress someone. But it’s not like that anymore.”
Drew freezes. He knows. He knows what Jake’s talking about. He knows about Daisy, about the crush Jake had, about how Jake had convinced Drew that he joined the music club to win her over, to impress her. Drew had believed it. He had. But now, hearing Jake say this... it’s like everything he thought he understood has been flipped on its head.
“I’m still here, Drew. Even if it’s... different. I just need you to know that.”
And in that moment, Drew go of everything he’s been holding onto. He doesn’t need Jake to explaletsin everything. He just needs him to be here.
And maybe, just maybe, they’ll both figure out how to make it work.
+1 the time he didn’t
“Freak.”
Freak.
That’s what he said, wasn’t it?
He called Jake that. Right to his face, once. Maybe more than once. Maybe in front of other people. Maybe under his breath when Jake walked by with his music club friends—his real friends now, apparently. Maybe loud enough that the whole room heard, just to make sure Jake did.
Drew closes his eyes and remembers the moment like it’s caught in a spiderweb—thin and fragile, yet too sticky to shake off. He remembers Jake flinching. Not saying anything. Just looking at him like he was someone else. And maybe in that moment, he was someone else.
He wants to shove that word back down his throat, rip it out of his vocabulary like it never belonged there. He wants to hurl it at a wall and watch it crack, shatter, burn. He wants to bleed apologies into Jake’s hands and offer them up like penance, but he’s not sure Jake would take them. Not now.
Because Jake? Jake aligned himself with them. The music freaks. The outcasts. The kids who carried their instruments like shields and wrote their feelings into harmonies. The ones Drew mocked, because mocking was easier than admitting he didn’t understand how to be like them.
Freakfreakfreakfreak.
He used to say it like a joke. A wall between them. Like a warning shot across no-man’s land.
But they won.
The stupid competition. The one Jake kept talking about with that glowing look in his eye, the one Drew used to tune out. They won. And now that’s all anyone talks about. Their performance. Their stupid, beautiful performance. The song. The way it made people feel.
And people like them now.
People like Jake now.
It’s pathetic.
Drew sinks lower in his seat, staring blankly at the board. First period English. Ms. Patel’s writing something about metaphors and meaning on the board, and all he can think about is how much everything’s changed.
Lia and Zoey? Not friends anymore. That imploded in front of everyone. Even Drew knew it was coming. There’d been cracks in the perfect picture for a while. But what surprised him was that Lia didn’t fight it. She walked away and never looked back. That made Drew... weirdly proud of her.
Zoey? She didn’t even cry. Just glared like she’d been betrayed, like it was everyone else’s fault. She didn’t look at Drew, and he didn’t look at her.
He’s not sure what they are anymore. Exes? Ghosts? Just two people with too much history and not enough future.
Jake doesn’t sit next to him anymore. He used to—before the club. Before everything fractured and turned to dust. Now Jake sits with Hailey, two rows away, laughing at something she’s written in the margins of her book. Their shoulders bump sometimes. They share earphones.
They’re... close.
He doesn't hate Hailey. Not really. He wants to hate her, but it doesn't stick. She’s not cruel, just confident. She’s the kind of person who believes in things, loudly. She’s the kind of person who believed in Jake. And Drew... Drew stopped doing that somewhere along the way.
And Henry and Liam? They’re quiet today. They’ve been quiet for a while, like something between them all is unspoken and raw. Maybe they feel it too. The shift. The loss.
Then there’s Lia.
She sits next to him now.
She gives him a small smile when she slides into her seat, but it’s strained, brittle around the edges. Drew doesn’t say anything. He just stares ahead. But he feels her there, like a weight and a comfort all at once.
They’re not close. Not like she was with Zoey. Not like Jake and Hailey. But there’s something shared between them now—something unspoken. Maybe it’s pain. Maybe it’s regret. Maybe it’s just being the ones left behind.
The silence between them is thick. Comfortable. Sad.
He wants to ask her if she’s okay. But the words won’t come. And besides, he knows the answer already. She’s not. Neither is he.
The bell rings. Ms. Patel starts the lesson. Something about poetry and language and metaphor. Drew hears his voice like a distant buzz. He doesn’t take notes. He doesn’t move. He watches Jake lean forward in his seat, his hand flying across his notebook. Probably lyrics. Probably important.
And Drew... Drew tunes out the rest. Because he already knows the words he wishes he could take back. Because even though Jake is only two rows away, it feels like he’s on a different planet.
And Drew’s still here.
With the echo of freak sitting heavy in his mouth.