Archive of Our Own

Dear December,

There are days that feel like a video game on easy mode: everything flows naturally, laughter becomes the soundtrack of existence and the world seems, for once, to be on your side. Today started like that. Or at least, I thought so.

I’m sunk into Elias’s living room couch, legs tangled under a blanket that smells of lavender and too many autumn afternoons that are already part of my DNA. Beside me, he holds the PlayStation controller with clenched fingers, jaw tense, eyes narrowed as Spiderman dies again in the most humiliating way possible. It’s the third time he’s failed exactly the same assault and I can’t help laughing like an idiot. The frustration drawn on his face is so pure, so childish, so him, that it gives me an immense tenderness that squeezes my chest.

—Alex, stop looking at me like I’m shit —he grumbles without taking his eyes off the screen, frowning just as his character reappears at the checkpoint—. Not all of us have your luck! Besides, I put it on hard mode. You only played on medium.

—Luck? —I mock, arching an eyebrow with all the theatricality in the world—. Eli, trust me, if I had played on hard, I would have finished this part a while ago. In the previous horde you were like ten attempts in a row, and I, on medium difficulty, passed them immediately. It can’t be that complicated.

I give him a gentle push with my shoulder and add, with a sly smile I can’t contain:

—Besides, Eli, it looks like you’re playing with a brick instead of a controller. You’re going to break it. Calm down, cutie.

He lets out a stifled giggle (that laugh he tries to hide but escapes anyway, as if his body couldn’t help it when I’m near). He looks at me sideways with those blue eyes that always catch me off guard, that always make me feel like I’m falling forward and never want to land.

—Sure, because you’re Mr. Perfect, right? —he says sarcastically, leaving the controller on a cushion to elbow me. His lips curve into a mocking smile as he leans toward me, getting dangerously close—. And what happened with Valorant last night? I saw you playing and you were pathetic, baby.

And then, as if his words weren’t enough, he rubs against me shamelessly, increasing his mockery, his shoulder against mine, his warmth filtering through our clothes.

—Pathetic? —I repeat, crossing my arms, feigning indignation—. Please, I let Liam win. You know how he gets when he loses. It was pure kindness, Eli.

—You let him win!? —he exclaims and bursts out laughing so hard he almost falls off the couch—. That’s not how that game works!

—What do you know? You don’t even play it —I declare confidently, displaying a triumphant smile—. In fact, before giving your opinion, you should first finish Spiderman. And, by how you’re going, that’s not going to happen.

Elias straightens up on the couch, adopting an expression of feigned indignation that completely disarms me. I feel such great tenderness it almost hurts my chest, as if my heart had swollen too much and no longer fit inside me.

—Of course I’m going to finish it! You’ll see.

Then, with overflowing theatricality, he clears his throat and, with a deep voice that sounds more like a dog with a cold, imitates me:

—“Look at me, I’m Alexander, look at my hair, I’m so cool.”

I double over with laughter, almost throwing the blanket to the floor.

—And that voice? —I manage to say between laughs, wiping away a tear—. Eli, I don’t talk like that.

—Of course you talk like that —he insists, moving his hands exaggeratedly—. And you always touch your hair, you mess it up like it’s casual, but you do it on purpose to play “cool.”

—I thought we were talking about video games —I reply, playing dumb, though inside I’m dying of laughter. His imitation is ridiculous and charming. And the worst part is he’s right: I do touch my hair more than I should.

But that’s not the truth that interests me, the only irrefutable truth at this moment is that he looks cute. Too cute. With his hair tousled, cheek resting on the back of the couch and that smile that seems made only for me.

The desire to kiss him begins to grow inside me, igniting me from within like a spark in the darkness, slow, hot, impossible to extinguish.

—That’s what we were talking about —he says, still smiling, picking up the controller again—. It’s just that you’re unbearable and I needed to say it.

I give him a mischievous look and, unable to contain myself, whisper in his ear:

—You still haven’t even finished God of War…

Elias snorts, crossing his arms.

—Because I got lazy, not because I can’t! —he growls, and I smile, satisfied to have gotten him annoyed in that adorable way I like so much.

That pang in my chest, that little warmth that appears every time I make him laugh or frown… There’s no comparison. It’s as if my body had learned to recognize it as its own language.

For a moment, I forget everything else.

—Besides —he continues, leaning back against the couch—, I think it already bored me. I’d rather play… I don’t know, GTA. I want to steal a car and crash it into things. Or into people. Or something.

I look at him with feigned horror.

—How sadistic —I say, putting on a theatrical face—. I have 5 on PC, but when six comes out, I promise I’ll buy it and we’ll play it all day on the console —I tell him, still laughing, maintaining my previous expression—. But only if, when we play online, you promise not to crash the cars all the time.

—Deal —he responds confidently, and before I can react, he gives me a playful punch on the arm—. Although I’m sure you’ll crash first, idiot.

And in that instant, I see it clearly.

We are perfect.

The way we laugh, how we tease each other over silly things, how the world reduces to this couch and our voices, how every gesture of his reminds me that I’m exactly where I want to be.

I could stay here forever, trapped in this bubble where nothing weighs too much, where time stops and only he and I exist and this warmth that never goes out.

But the laughter fades little by little, like a song that vanishes in a long fade-out. The console controller is left forgotten among the cushions, displaced by something more important.

Elias turns toward me and rests his chin on my shoulder with a naturalness that disarms me. He doesn’t hesitate for a second when I put an arm behind him, drawing him closer. His blonde hair brushes my cheek, leaving in its wake a trail of his berry shampoo, the one he’s been using since I’ve known him and that, somehow, has become a smell I associate with home. But there’s something more, something warmer, it’s simply him. It’s an indefinable aroma, a trace of his essence that engraves itself on me like a tattoo.

—You really are an idiot, you know that? —he whispers, his voice lower, more intimate, vibrating against my collarbone.

He says it so softly that the insult sounds like a declaration of love.

And before I can respond, he kisses my cheek. It’s not a quick kiss; it’s a slow, deliberate one, the kind that linger as if they had all the time in the world. His lips stay there, warm, soft, barely pressing, and I feel how his hot breath brushes my skin, how his hand rises to my face and caresses my jaw with his thumb, tracing a line that bristles me entirely.

I close my eyes without realizing it. I tighten the arm I have around his waist and bring him closer, so much that our sides stick together completely under the blanket. Our gazes cross when he separates barely a few millimeters: his blue eyes shine, enormous, a bit amused, a bit nervous, totally in love. I look at him like an idiot, unable to help it, and he returns my gaze with that intensity that always leaves me breathless.

—It’s the sweetest thing you’ve said to me in weeks, Eli. So romantic —I murmur with a goofy smile, my voice tinged with mockery, but full of warmth. I tilt my head and plant a kiss on his forehead, slow, almost reverential, letting my lips stay there a second longer than necessary.

He lets out a soft laugh against my skin and kisses my cheek again, briefer but just as sweet.

—I’m not terrible, just… strategically original —he replies with an amused grimace, snuggling more against me.

—Sure, and I’m God at Valorant —I joke, squeezing him a bit more.

—You’re worse than me at this —he says laughing lightly, the sound vibrating against my chest.

—Lie —I reply, looking at him sideways—. But I forgive you because you’re cute when you lose.

Elias raises an eyebrow, his expression between incredulous and mischievous.

—Cute? Is that the best you’ve got, Alex? Come on, give me something more cheesy, I know you can —he says it with that half-smile that kills me, because he knows perfectly well that yesterday I got cheesy to exhaustion for no apparent reason. The truth is that yesterday something unpleasant had happened to me and I needed to cling to him more than normal.

—It’s the truth —I respond, shrugging before stealing a quick kiss on his lips—. Cute and a loser, my favorite combination.

—Silly… —he whispers, but this time his voice sounds different. Softer. More fragile. There’s a barely perceptible doubt that crosses his eyes, and I, who know him better than myself, can’t let it pass.

—Okay, okay… —I say, rolling my eyes with all the drama in the world—. You’re the cutest boy in the whole world, baby. Happy? You forced me to be cheesy.

He smiles, but this time the smile is different: smaller, more real. He stares at me for a long second, as if deciding something, and then murmurs:

—Yes I am, I’m super sexy.

We both burst into laughter, the sound filling the room, bouncing off the walls and returning to us like a happy echo. But the laughter fades and we’re left looking. Just looking. His blue eyes soften, become liquid, and I feel like I’m drowning in them without wanting to ever come out.

He’s the one who moves closer first. He’s the one who takes courage, who shortens the distance and kisses me.

This kiss is different. Slower. Deeper.

It tastes of something I don’t want to name for fear it will disappear, but that feels so real I want to grab it with both hands and never let go.

His lips open barely against mine, soft, warm, a bit trembling at first, and then confident, as if he always knew how to fit with me. His breath tastes of the mint from the gum he chewed a while ago and something sweeter, his saliva, nectar of his mere essence that I love. I feel his breathing accelerate against my mouth, his eyelashes brushing my cheek when he closes his eyes, his hand rising to my chest to wrinkle my vest.

I melt. Literally. I feel my bones turn to jelly, that my heart beats so hard he must be feeling it against his chest. I hug him tighter, bring him so close there’s no space left between us, I want to absorb him, I want him to merge with me, for there not to be a single centimeter of air separating us. My fingers sink into his waist and he sighs inside my mouth, a sound so small, so intimate it runs through me entirely like electric current.

I want more. I want everything. I want to stay here forever, lost in his taste, in his warmth, in the way his body molds to mine as if we had been designed for this.

But just when I’m about to lose myself completely, when my brain has already shut off and only he exists, something in my chest tightens. A pressure. A weight. A phrase I’ve been carrying for days and that now, in this precise second, becomes unbearable.

Because while my body wants to stay in this kiss, my mind has been insisting on something else for days. An idea that has tangled among my thoughts, returning every time I shut up. It’s like having a stone in your shoe while trying to run. I can’t ignore it. Not this time.

I separate barely, my lips still brushing his, and look at him. Elias keeps his eyes closed a second longer, as if he didn’t want to return completely, as if he were afraid to open them and I’m no longer there.

And in that space, in that silence left by his soft breathing and his forehead touching mine, I feel the pressure in my chest become unbearable.

If I don’t say it now, I’m going to explode.

So finally, I open my mouth and let it out…

—Hey, Eli… —I start, and my voice sounds more tense than I intended—. Does Ezra still walk you home when I’m at practice?

Elias’s body tenses, barely a bit, but enough for me to feel it under my arm as if suddenly they had injected ice into his veins. His shoulder hardens against mine, his breathing becomes more contained, more careful. He pulls away a centimeter—just one fucking centimeter—and my world falls apart. The warmth we had thirty seconds ago evaporates, freezes, and the air between us becomes sharp.

—Ezra? —he repeats, frowning as if the question seemed strange to him—. I think so, sometimes.

—And do you play video games and stuff? —I insist while his expression continues to be one of strangeness.

Fear hits me suddenly seeing that expression. That face that two minutes ago was pure laughter is now… lost. As if he didn’t understand who I am. And that terrifies me. It terrifies me so much I feel my heart is going to come out through my throat, because all the good vibes, the whole perfect afternoon, is crumbling before my eyes and I’m the one breaking it.

—We play Roblox, sometimes we do things at Matteo’s house and when you accompany me to practices, he keeps me company. Why do you ask?

I shrug, fixing my gaze on the TV’s dark screen. The dim light from the lamp in the corner projects our shadows on the wall, elongated and distorted, as if they too knew this is going to hell.

—I don’t know —I lie, with a churning stomach—. It just came to mind. He’s everywhere lately, isn’t he?

Elias observes me, and there’s something in his look I can’t decipher. Confusion, maybe. Or caution. Or both. And that bothers me more than any shouting.

—Everywhere? I see, I thought you didn’t dislike him anymore —he says practically sighing, and his voice loses part of its warmth—. Alex, he’s in the group. Of course he’s around. What’s weird about that?

—I’m not saying it’s weird —I respond, feeling a knot tightening in my chest—. Just that… I don’t know, it seems like he’s always near you. Like he’s your shadow or something. Haven’t you noticed?

—My shadow? So, this is about me? —his tone hardens a bit—. Alex, I don’t understand, he’s with me as a friend, the same way he’s with all the other guys in the group.

My laugh escapes, but it’s not a laugh of amusement. It’s bitter, almost incredulous. I look at him sideways, searching for some crack, some indication that he knows perfectly well what I’m talking about. But there’s nothing. He seems genuine. Does he really not see it? Or is he playing dumb? The doubt eats me alive.

—What? Why are you laughing, Alex? It’s true. It’s not weird, he’s like everyone else and that’s it. You don’t act like this with Lukas or Matteo. Why with Ezra? Just because he’s gay? You’re saying things that asshole Jules would say.

That comparison pierces through me like a knife. It burns my blood. It burns so much I feel my head is going to explode. Jules. The same imbecile who calls him “faggot” and who can only stop bothering with a punch from my fist. Comparing me to him is like spitting in my face.

—Eli, it’s not like that —I say, and my voice comes out more hostile than I intended—. I’m just asking and that’s it.

And there it is. The spark I didn’t want to ignite, but that now burns between us.

Elias sits up straighter, crossing his arms over his chest as if he needed a barrier between him and my words.

—You ask weird things, Alex —he says, and there’s a new edge in his voice—. What are you insinuating? That I shouldn’t talk to Ezra or what?

—I’m not insinuating anything —I reply, feeling my own voice rise, losing control—. I’m just saying you mention him a lot. “Ezra scored a goal,” “Ezra said something funny.” It’s normal for me to ask about him if you always talk about him, in fact, what’s up, isn’t Lukas your best friend anymore? Is it Ezra now? Or I don’t know… is there something else going on with the guy?

—Something else? —he repeats, incredulous, and stands up—. He’s a friend, Alex! As much as you dislike him, since when does it bother you that I have friends?

—It doesn’t bother me that you have friends —I snap, standing up too. The couch remains like a minefield between us, something neither of us dares to cross—. It bothers me that it’s him. That it’s Ezra. All the time Ezra.

My mind is a storm. I see images I don’t want to see: Ezra brushing his arm “accidentally,” Ezra laughing too loud when Elias speaks, Ezra looking at him when he thinks nobody sees. And each memory is a knife. I drown in them. I drown in the idea that maybe Elias does notice and it doesn’t bother him. Or worse: that he likes it. And that possibility destroys me.

—What the fuck!? You’re jealous! —his voice trembles at the end—. You’re exaggerating! I talked about him once today because he scored a goal at recess! Nothing more! What’s wrong with you? You’re not like this.

—I’m not like this? —my heart beats so hard I feel it in my temples—. And how am I supposed to be, Eli? Should I stay quiet while that idiot approaches you in that weird way, when I’m right there? He’s an imbecile. He does it on purpose.

Elias opens his mouth, but closes it immediately. His expression wavers for an instant, as if considering whether it’s worth responding to me.

—Do you really believe that? —he whispers, and his tone angers me more. It angers me that maybe he really hasn’t noticed. Or worse, that he has noticed and allowed it. I don’t know which option is worse.

My fingers close into fists at my sides, my nails marking my skin.

—So then… what do you mean by all this? —he asks, taking a step toward me.

—That maybe you should push him away, Eli. It’s obvious he likes you, I don’t understand how the fuck you don’t realice it. In fact, you know what?—

—What? —Elias asks with fear in his eyes, at least that’s what I see. And I’m scared too. A horrible, slimy fear that rises up my throat. I know what I’m about to say is going to open a crack that may never close. I know I can lose everything in this second. But anger is stronger. Impulsiveness wins.

—Maybe you do…—

My words fall heavy in the air between us. Elias stays silent, his expression becoming even more hostile.

—What are you insinuating? That I like Ezra? That I’m cheating on you!? What the fuck, Alex!?

His anger is no longer playful, it’s not the kind of annoyance that vanishes with a laugh. This is real. His jaw tenses, his deep blue eyes become dark, they’re charged with something I don’t want to see: pain, rage, betrayal.

—I don’t know, Eli —I say with an arrogant expression I don’t feel—. You tell me.

Elias shakes his head, as if he can’t believe what I’m saying.

—You really believe that… —his voice is low, almost a murmur—. That’s the stupidest thing you’ve said, Alex.

—I don’t know what to believe —I let out, taking my jacket from the back of the couch because I need to get out of here.

—You’re being an idiot, Alex! —he shouts, and his voice breaks on the last word—. Why are you acting like this? I’d never seen you act like I was… like I was your property or something! And now you’re accusing me!?

—I’m not saying you’re my property —I reply, putting on my jacket with brusque movements—. You should know me well enough to know that I’ve never thought nor will think that shit. But I can’t stand seeing him getting between us. Because that’s what he does, and it shows a lot, damn it! Too much! —I sigh indignantly.

Elias stays still, as if my words had hit him. His breathing is broken, his hands closed in fists.

—Do you really think there’s something between Ezra and me?

My silence is answer enough.

—You’re a complete imbecile, Alex! —his voice explodes with a force that shakes me inside, so loud and broken it freezes my blood. I bristle instantly, as if lightning had crossed the room. I hadn’t seen him like this since that time… Valerie’s birthday. That memory hits me like a punch in the stomach, bringing back that nauseating mixture of fear and melancholy I thought buried—. There’s nothing! —he shouts again, backing away as if he needed space to contain his rage—. He’s my friend, Alex! Nothing more! Why the fuck can’t you trust me!?

—It’s not that I don’t trust you —I respond, but my words feel hollow even to me—. It’s that I don’t trust him.

—Then talk to him about it! Or Say he’s the problem! —he exclaims, hitting the table with his open palm—. But don’t come to dump all your fucking… insecurity on me! I don’t deserve it! I haven’t done anything wrong!

We look at each other. We breathe fast. Words are no longer enough.

—Leave, then! —he says, and his voice lowers to a murmur—. If you can’t talk without accusing me of things I didn’t do… Leave me alone! Get out!

—Fine! —I say, and this time I do leave. This time I don’t look back.

The door slam sounds louder than I expected.

In fact, Maxime was in the hallway, with an expression loaded with surprise and confusion. He must have heard everything, I thought.

—Alex…?

I don’t respond. I walk past.

The cold of the night hits my face like a whip, and the knot in my throat tightens until I can barely breathe. I feel like I just broke the most important thing I had in my life… and I don’t even know if there’s a way back.

I walk through the frozen streets with my hands buried in my pockets, feeling the rough fabric of my jacket rub the skin of my knuckles as if I were rubbing an open wound that won’t close. My breath comes out in small white clouds that vanish in the air, fragile and ephemeral like the thoughts I try to contain, as if each exhalation were a mute plea for all this to dissipate before I drown. Christmas lights flicker in the windows—red, green, golden—projecting warm flashes on the snow accumulated on the frames, but they say nothing to me. They don’t warm me. They’re just false colors, promises of something that no longer exists for me.

The town lies wrapped in a winter stillness, a thick silence that only breaks with the crunch of frost under my boots, that dry, brittle sound that seems like the echo of something breaking inside me. My steps resonate on the sidewalk like an out-of-sync metronome, the only living sound in this frozen scene, as if the entire world had stopped to watch me parade with my own ruin.

And while I kick a loose stone that rolls until it’s lost under a blanket of dirty snow, I try to make sense of all this chaos that twists in my chest like a wounded animal that doesn’t know whether to bite or lick its wounds.

I’m not jealous.

I’ve never been.

Elias can talk to whoever he wants, laugh with whoever he wants, and it’s always been fine with me. I like seeing him happy, seeing him shine like only he knows how, with that natural light that seems to be born from his bones, as if he carried the sun inside his body, as if his laugh were the only thing capable of melting the approaching winter.

When Zoe makes him laugh with her bad jokes, I laugh with them, because his laughter is contagious and because I know it’s innocent. When Matteo drags him to play soccer, even though he’s a disaster on the field, I stay watching from the bench, entertained, admiring his clumsiness, the way he wrinkles his nose when he gets frustrated, that small wrinkle between his eyebrows that I want to kiss until it disappears. It’s cute, and even cuter when he pretends to get angry with Matteo and pushes him with that harmless force that doesn’t fool anyone, that only makes me want to hug him tighter.

It doesn’t bother me that he spends so much time with Lukas. They’re almost brothers, and I know the big guy takes care of him as if he carried a medieval knight’s oath on him, as if Elias were something fragile and sacred that must be protected at all costs. It doesn’t bother me either when he stays at Valerie’s house; they’re friends, and I know Valerie would never cross lines, that her affection is clean, without double meanings.

But Ezra…

Ezra is not like them.

Ezra is different.

And I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a complete possessive imbecile, but I feel it in every fiber of my being, like an underground current that drags me even though I try to swim against it. It’s a dull alarm that resonates at the bottom of my stomach, an uncomfortable tingling that crawls up my back every time I see him lean too close to Elias, every time I hear him pronounce his name with that peculiar cadence, as if he were savoring it, as if each syllable were a caress he has no right to give.

I tell myself I’m exaggerating, that I’m paranoid, that this is just fear disguised as rage, but the doubt is still there, stuck like a thorn I can’t ignore, that digs deeper every time I try to pull it out.

And the worst of all is that Elias doesn’t seem to notice.

Or, even worse, he does notice and doesn’t care.

I think about the things I’ve seen, about those small details that have been accumulating like drops of acid, burning slow, corroding something inside me that I don’t even know how to name, something that before was solid and now feels like glass about to shatter.

The way Ezra approaches Elias without any shame, blurring any notion of personal space, sticking to him with that shameless confidence, as if his closeness belonged to him by right, as if the air around Elias were his to breathe. How he brushes his arm with his fingers, barely a whisper of skin against skin, believing nobody notices, as if it were an accident. But it’s not. It never is.

How he throws those flirty jokes at him, sweetened with a smile that seems genuine, but hides a treacherous edge, a kind of knife wrapped in velvet, soft to the touch but capable of cutting you to the bone. As if they shared a secret from which I’m excluded, as if there were a language between them I never learned.

And then there are his words. Small, but sharp. Like that day in the cafeteria, when he looked directly into his eyes and said, without a hint of shame:

—I think you’re the cutest boy in the whole school, you know?

He said it with a carefree, casual smile, as if he were simply stating an irrefutable fact. I was there. Two seats away, at the same table, with my fork stuck in my food, feeling how my knuckles tensed around the metal until it hurt. Pretending I hadn’t heard it, but I had, and worse still, Elias heard it too and just laughed.

Not nervously, not uncomfortably. He laughed as if it didn’t bother him, as if it amused him, as if… as if he liked it. And that’s when the acid stopped dripping and became an open burn in my chest, a burn that still hasn’t healed.

Lukas warned me a few days ago. We were at recess, sharing a bag of chips while leaning against the schoolyard fence. He was eating with the same calm expression as always, but his eyes had that serious gleam that only appears when he really cares about something.

—Hey, not for nothing, but I feel like Ezra is too close to Elias —he said, putting another chip in his mouth—. He’s like following him around all the time, Alex.

He didn’t say it as a simple observation. He said it as a warning, as if he were seeing something I refused to accept.

And then Finnei, who almost never gets involved in anything, gave me a strange look before murmuring.

—That guy doesn't understand boundaries. Be careful, he's weird.

I didn't say anything.

Because what could I say?

That I already knew. That I felt it in every pore of my skin like a slow-acting poison. That every time Ezra and Elias were together, something inside me twisted as if someone were dismantling me from the inside out, bone by bone.

That the fear wasn't that Ezra was getting too close.

The fear was that Elias wasn't trying to pull away.

And then there's the thing with the thugs.

Elias told me about it a week ago, sitting on the same couch we were on now, his back sunk into the cushions and that damn sparkle in his eyes that made me clench my teeth until my jaw ached.

He said he was near the town square, alone, when those idiots from Jules' gang approached him. He didn't give me too many details, barely answered my questions with short phrases, as if he didn't want to worry me more, as if he was trying to downplay what had happened. But the bottom line was that nothing bad had happened to him.

Unfortunately, one of the reasons for that was Ezra.

He appeared out of nowhere, like some cheap movie hero, and with a couple of punches kept them at bay. Then, without hesitation, he took Elias by the hand and ran with him down the path until they were safe.

—It was incredible, Alex—he told me, and there was something in his voice that threw me off.

Admiration. Gratitude.

Or maybe something more that I didn't want to identify, something that looked too much like the gleam in his eyes when he looks at me after a long kiss.

Incredible.

Right.

The worst part wasn't faking happiness, or the guilt I felt when I realized I couldn't be completely happy because Ezra had been the one to save him. It wasn't even remembering that, at some point, I had promised to protect him, with that veiled promise I made in the school bathroom, wrapped in subtle flirtation and easy smiles.

No.

The worst part was having to thank that asshole.

The next day, I swallowed what little pride I had left and did it.

—Thanks.

My voice came out dry, too tight, too contained, as if each letter weighed a ton.

And there was Ezra, with that cynical smile, that satisfied expression that made my blood boil, that made me want to wipe it off his face with a punch.

His hand clasped mine in a firm grip that lasted too long, as if he wanted to make sure I'd remember it, as if he wanted me to feel his strength, his presence, his control over the situation, as if he were marking territory.

Just remembering it makes me want to throw up.

I feel the urge to wipe my palm against my jacket, even though days have passed, as if his touch were still there, sticky, impossible to remove.

But that's not all.

There's also that time in Lukas' living room, just a few days ago.

Ezra sat on the couch so close to Elias that their knees were touching, so comfortable, so natural, as if that space belonged to him, as if my place was being occupied little by little. Then he draped an arm over his shoulders, laughing at something stupid he said, just for him.

Just for Elias.

The jokes he cracked... they were too easy to read another way, loaded with double meanings, sweet and cutting at the same time. But my boyfriend, in his absurd innocence, thought they were just that: jokes.

But I saw Ezra's look.

The calculating spark in his eyes.

He wasn't hiding anything. It was an open declaration.

Despite my self-imposed ignorance, I got angry.

I had to bite my tongue until I tasted blood to keep from jumping off the chair and shoving him away.

And then there's that other time in the hallway.

I saw Ezra lean toward him, get so close that his breath must have grazed his skin, that his words must have fallen straight into his ear like hot secrets.

I saw Elias blush.

I saw how he pulled away with a nervous laugh, still smiling, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

And I walked past, backpack over my shoulder, pretending I hadn't seen it, but I saw it and I felt it, and every step I took afterward was like walking on broken glass.

I clench my fists inside my pockets until my nails dig into my palms, leaving a stinging burn on the skin that I almost welcome, because at least it's a pain I understand. The cold bites at my ears, sharp and cruel, as if it wants to punish me for not doing something sooner, for letting this grow like weeds.

But what I feel isn't jealousy, it's fury, because Ezra isn't just close to Elias. Ezra is invading, invading something that's mine—and I don't mean Elias as property, never that—but what we have, something that cost us blood and tears to build, something he has no right to touch with his dirty hands, something he doesn't deserve even in his dreams.

But it's not just that, there's something else, something that churns my guts every time I think about him: it's not just that he's there, it's how he is, how he moves with that shameless confidence, that arrogance that seems to tell the world that nothing is off-limits to him, that rules are for other people. How he talks with that honey-thick voice, smooth and enveloping, as if he knows exactly what strings to pull in each person, and above all, how he makes Elias look at him in a way I don't understand, with curiosity and something more.

Something I don't want to imagine, but that haunts my nightmares.

I walk faster, as if I could leave these thoughts behind, but they follow me like starving dogs, barking in my ears, sinking their teeth into my mind, tearing apart everything I'm trying to hold together.

I remember.

A few days ago, on the field, Ezra kicked the ball with absurd precision, the shot was so clean that even Matteo—who doesn't celebrate even when he scores the winning goal—clapped in approval. The goal made everyone shout and Elias was there, sitting in the stands.

When Ezra scored, he stood up, his face lit by a smile that hurt to see, that pierced me like a slow bullet.

—Ezra!—he shouted, laughing, eyes bright, with that light I thought only lit up for me.

It wasn't a smile that excluded me, not exactly, but it didn't need me to exist either, and that... that cut me like broken glass digging in slowly, unhurried, until it reaches bone.

And then there's how Ezra seeks him out, always with an excuse.

—Hey, Eli, help me with this—with that syrupy voice he uses only with him, that seems reserved like a caress.

—Eli, watch this video, it's great—and he passes him the phone, leaning in so close their shoulders brush, their heads nearly touching.

Small things, but they pile up, like snow on a branch about to break.

And I'm underneath, waiting for the blow, arms open and heart in hand.

I don't know why I care so much, I shouldn't, Elias loves me, I know it. He tells me all the time, with words, with looks, with the way his fingers brush mine when we walk together, with every laugh that dies against my neck when I hug him and pull him against my chest until I feel his heartbeat against mine. He shows me in a thousand ways, in every stolen kiss, in every "I love you" whispered against my skin.

But Ezra...

Ezra is like a crack in a window you don't see until the wind starts seeping through.

Freezing. Persistent. Relentless.

And now I'm here, walking alone under this gray sky, with the cold clawing at my skin and the wind biting my ears, wondering how the hell I got to this point.

How I let this get so deep inside me, down to the marrow.

The cold seeps through the edges of my jacket, biting my skin with sharp teeth, but it's nothing compared to the ice I carry inside. It's a different kind of cold, one that can't be shaken off with the warmth of coffee or the flickering lights of houses decorated for Christmas. It's a cold that has settled in my chest, sinking like roots into frozen ground, coiling around my heart until it can barely beat.

I walk aimlessly, empty streets stretching before me like an endless dream, hazy and monotonous. My breath comes out in white bursts, vanishing into nothing, and my footsteps echo on the frozen sidewalk, solitary, lost, as if each one takes me further from who I was a few hours ago.

But then, something else creeps into my head.

Something I don't want to face.

Something that's been lurking in the shadows of my thoughts, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

A voice, Valerie's voice.

—It's like you and that Ezra guy are kind of alike.

Her tone was light when she said it, as if it were just any observation, but I felt something inside me tense, twist, refuse to listen.

—You're both super confident and make people look at you.

—That way you both move through the world like nothing can touch you.

I remember how she said it, with that analytical expression she uses when she's evaluating a situation. Like she was reading me. Like she was seeing me too well, too deep, and I didn't like what she saw.

And now, walking alone under this dull sky, with the wind stabbing my skin like invisible needles, past the anger I felt in that moment, past my immediate instinct to reject the idea, maybe Valerie is right.

He has his soccer, I have my basketball. Two different sports, but the same certainty in our movements, the same calculation in every play. We both know how to walk into a room and, with just a few words, make people laugh or shut up, at least I think so.

We even like the same music.

Right now, Red Hot Chili Peppers is playing in my head. Dani California. That riff that smells like highway, open windows and wind in your face, freedom I no longer feel. I’ve seen him hum it in the hallway, with that distracted gesture of someone who doesn’t realice he’s showing something of himself. The same thing I do when I listen to it on my headphones, when I close my eyes and imagine everything is still simple.

If I look at him too long, it’s like seeing myself reflected in an old, dirty mirror. One that returns a version of me I don’t want to recognize, a version that could do harm if allowed.

But there are lines I would never cross.

Ezra crosses them with the ease of someone who doesn’t even see them. He lies without blinking. He manipulates people like they’re pieces on a chess board where he always plays with an advantage, moving them at will no matter who gets hurt.

Mieke told me once.

—That guy’s a manipulative piece of shit, Alex.

She told me while leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, with that typical distrustful expression that leaves no room for doubt. She said Ezra had convinced some freshman to do his homework in exchange for protecting him from bullies that didn’t even exist. That he had him doing his assignments for weeks until the poor kid collapsed, all because of a lie.

And then another question hits me, one that churns my insides like acid.

The thing with the thugs and Elias…

Was it real? Or was it another play? Did he plan it all to come off as a damn hero, to have an excuse to take his hand and run, to be the one who saves him when I couldn’t?

I don’t know, maybe I’m just paranoid, this whole situation is making me discover things about myself I never thought possible and it’s killing me, turning me into someone I don’t like, someone who yells, who accuses, who destroys what he loves most.

But I’m not like that. I never would be. I would never play with someone’s feelings. I would never put a person on a scale to see what I can get out of them.

But right now, with this rage burning inside me like a fire I don’t know how to put out…

I’m not so sure.

What if I’m competing with him because, deep down, I’m afraid of being like him? Or worse?

What if Elias sees something in him that he doesn’t find in me? Something easier, brighter, less complicated than this mess I am now?

Fear hits me all at once, like a bucket of ice water in the dead of winter. Losing Elias.

That’s what’s really destroying me.

It’s not just Ezra. He’s only the match that lit all this. But the fire was already there, dormant, waiting for a spark. It’s everything else, everything that’s been piling up like books on an overstuffed shelf, about to collapse, crushing me beneath.

Christmas without Mom.

These last few years hurt more. They hurt as if someone had ripped the scab off a wound with a dull knife, slowly, to make it hurt more.

It was always her favorite time. The tree full of lights, the smell of burnt cookies because she never learned to make them right, her laughter while we wrapped gifts clumsily, her hands over mine guiding me to make a perfect bow.

Now there’s only silence. And Dad trying to fill it with smiles that don’t reach his eyes, that crack at the corners.

And Aunt Eva.

At first I thought it would be good to have her around. Like when I was a kid, when she taught me about bands and how to skateboard, when I felt invincible. But now she says things. Things about Mom. About Dad. And things I don’t understand, even fights I didn’t know existed, secrets that were supposed to have died with her.

Each of her words is like a rusty nail hammering a wall full of cracks, opening them wider, letting the cold seep in.

The other night I heard her arguing with Dad in the kitchen.

“You need to let the past go.”

That’s all I managed to hear before they lowered their voices. Since then, Dad barely looks me in the eye, and I walk through the house as if it were made of glass.

I don’t know what’s happening, but I feel like my family, the only thing I thought was solid, is crumbling like sand slipping through my fingers, and I don’t know how to stop it.

And basketball, the coach won’t stop pressuring me.

“You’ve got talent, Alex.”

“You could go to championships, do something big.”

“Can you imagine yourself in the NBA? Americans could show up here tomorrow.”

But I don’t know if I want to be big, at least not in this.

I like playing. I like feeling the ball in my hands, the sound of the net when I score, the sweat running down my back like some kind of baptism. But…

Is that what I want? Or do I just do it because everyone expects me to? Because it’s the only thing I have left from before, from when everything made sense?

The last practice I ended up so exhausted that I stayed sitting on the bench half an hour after everyone left, staring at the empty gym, the echo of the balls already silenced, wondering why I’m still here, why I keep running if I no longer know where to.

And now Ezra, worming his way into my life like a thief who doesn’t ask permission, with his winks, with his smiles, with that way of looking at Elias that makes me want to break his face, that makes me want to scream that he’s mine, to stay away, not to touch him.

And I don’t know how to stop him, I don’t know how to stop any of this.

My steps grow slower. The cold seeps through my collar, biting my skin, but all I can feel is the weight of all this on my shoulders, a weight that sinks me, that bends me, that makes me feel small for the first time in years.

And I think about how it all started, how Ezra arrived in November, with his black hair falling over his eyes and that shitty attitude that makes everyone look at him, that makes the air change when he walks into a room. How he won over Matteo with a couple of plays on the field, how he slipped into the group as if he’d always been there, and how, since then, I feel like something is breaking, something I don’t know how to fix, something that maybe is already broken forever.

I get home with my hands numb from the cold that seems to have chilled me to the bone, and my chest so tight I feel like an invisible hand is squeezing it, pressing on my breath to the point where I can barely breathe. My heart beats fast, but I’m short of air, I feel like I’m going to burst from the inside, like everything I’ve been holding in is going to explode and take what little is left of me. The porch lights are off, and the house looks like a sleeping giant against the gray sky, with dark windows, as if its eyes were closed, ignoring everything happening outside, ignoring me. I climb the stairs with quick steps, almost running, as if I were fleeing from something, but the creak of the wood under my feet echoes in the silence, reminding me that I can’t escape what’s inside me, what I am now.

When I reach my room, I close the door with a slam that makes the frame tremble. The door, my refuge, my only place where I can be alone, no longer gives me the peace it used to, it’s no longer enough. I let myself fall on the bed, face up, staring at the ceiling as if expecting it to answer me, as if it could give me some sign or some explanation for everything that’s happening. But nothing happens. The ceiling remains the same, with its old cracks and its shadows that seem to move when I blink. And then, everything collapses. Like a house of cards, so fragile that not even the whisper of wind could have taken it down, everything falls apart around me, slowly, painfully, unhurried.

The tears come without warning. Hot and fast, as if someone had turned on a faucet inside me and now everything is coming out without control, without permission. I cover my face with my hands, but it’s useless; they escape between my fingers, wetting my wrists, falling on the pillow like rain I didn’t ask for, as if my body could no longer contain more pain. Each tear seems to take a part of me with it, and I don’t know how to stop them, I don’t know if I want to stop them.

I’m crying like I haven’t cried since I was 11 and Mom left, that night at the hospital when Dad hugged me and told me everything was going to be okay, even though we both knew it was a lie, even though we both felt life slipping through our fingers. I don’t know how he did it, how he managed to lie to a little boy, how he managed to keep hope in his eyes when, in reality, everything was slipping out of our hands.

I hate how it sounds. This broken sob coming from my throat as if someone were pulling it out with tweezers, this animal noise that doesn’t seem like mine. I hate how it feels. This wetness on my face, as if the whole world were crumbling on top of me, this feeling of being vulnerable, of being completely exposed, naked before myself. This trembling in my hands that I can’t stop, this emptiness that opens in my chest and seems to have no bottom. I hate myself. For being weak. For letting this break me. But I can’t anymore. My body has been holding on for so long that I feel like it has no strength left, that it gave up without warning. It’s as if, in the end, everything I’ve been holding back exploded all at once, mercilessly.

Ezra.

Elias.

My family.

Basketball.

The weight of everything crushes me like an avalanche I didn’t see coming, an avalanche that started with something so small, so insignificant, but that has been accumulating, each small detail piling on top of another until I can’t take it anymore, until it buries me. I think about Mom. About how she used to sit on this same bed and comfort me whenever I was sad, her soft voice filling the room with a calm that now seems so distant, so impossible.

I think about Aunt Eva, who at first I thought it would be good to have around, but now she stirs up ghosts and stories laden with the past, with things I never knew, that I didn’t want to know, that now haunt me in every silence. I think about basketball, about the sweat running down my forehead, about the echo of the ball against the floor, about how each practice feels more like an obligation than something that once belonged to me, something I did for myself, for the thrill of playing, for feeling alive. Now I don’t know why I’m still there, I only know it’s the only thing I have left, the only thing that makes me feel like I’m still standing, even if I’m swaying. I think about the coach, about his firm voice saying “You have to make up your mind, Alex,” and I realice I don’t know what to decide. Because I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what I want, I don’t know if I ever knew.

I think about Elias. About his laugh from a few hours ago, so innocent, so full of life, and about how he looked at me when I told him I was leaving, with that expression of bewilderment that stuck in my chest like a dagger, that’s still there, twisting. About the crack I put between us with my own hands, about how I’m pulling away from him, even though what I want most is to protect him, keep him close, hold him until the world disappears. And I think about Ezra, about his face, his voice, about how he’s changing everything around him without even trying, as if he had the power to alter everything he touched without any effort, as if he were a storm that sweeps away everything I’ve built with such care.

I don’t know how long I stay like this. It could be minutes, it could be hours. Everything in my head blends together, I can’t distinguish one thought from another, it’s just white noise drowning me. My room is dark, only lit by the moonlight seeping through the window, filtering into the shadows and giving the room a cold atmosphere, as if nothing in it were real, as if I myself were fading away.

I don't know how I'm going to look at Elias tomorrow. I don't know if I'll be able to face him, those blue eyes that know me better than anyone, that have seen me naked in every sense, and tell him I'm sorry without it sounding hollow. Without it feeling hollow. I don't know how I'm going to face Ezra, with his winks and smiles and that way of barging in where he's not wanted, as if there were no rules, as if he owned everything. Without wanting to wipe that satisfied look off his face with my fists, without being able to stop thinking how easy it would be to let it all out, without measuring the consequences, without thinking about what would come after. But I know something has to change, because I can't go on like this. Carrying this weight as if it were infinite, as if it had no end, as if I were going to carry it until it crushes me completely. I can't lose him. Not him. Not us. Not after everything we've been through to get here.

I lie down again, staring at the ceiling, and let the silence wrap around me, embracing me as if it were the only thing I have left, as if it were the only thing that can't betray me. Outside, the wind blows, a low sound, like a whisper of something distant, a lament of something I'm not sure I want to understand. And I think about how this December is trying to tear away everything I love, as if it were its mission, as if winter came to take it all, to leave me naked and shivering in the snow. But I won't let it, I don't know how, but I won't let it. I won't let it take Elias from me. I won't let it lose myself.

-------some time later--------

—Elias...—Ezra began, his voice a bit lower than usual, as if he were about to confess a crime—. I want to apologize... for what I did. I know it's been a while and maybe this catches you off guard, but I want you to know that I don't know how it happened, but I did it and I feel bad about it.

Elias looked at him in silence, tilting his head. And he truly was surprised, he didn't think he'd talk to the dark-haired boy again, much less like this. Well, maybe he did, after all he couldn't ignore him forever, he thought.

—Why?—Elias asked, in a tone so neutral it almost seemed like he was ordering coffee, not asking for an apology.

Ezra stayed silent for a few seconds, his eyes wandering around the surroundings, as if suddenly everything seemed irrelevant. Finally, unable to find a deeper answer, he sighed.

—I don't know. But I feel like I should have said it... something like that, you know. I should have said it before.

Elias stared at him, processing the words coming out of Ezra's mouth with surgical precision, and finally, after a few seconds of suspense that he himself didn't understand where they'd come from, he said with a crooked smile:

—Ezra... you're a piece of shit.

And with that, he turned around, leaving Ezra standing there, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

Elias kept walking, as if he'd just dropped an absolute truth, unfazed. And Ezra stood there, with his half-given apology and his head full of jumbled thoughts, trapped in a joke that only Elias knew how to make work.

Life, Ezra thought, has strange ways of correcting its own mistakes. But that afternoon, with the bitter taste of his failed attempt at reconciliation still in his mouth, he couldn't laugh. He only felt a familiar weight in his chest, that thick mixture of sadness and resignation. Because, deep down, he knew Elias had a point... and accepting it hurt more than he was willing to admit, it hurt like accepting that some things, once broken, never quite fit back together again.