Nobody Knows

Chapter 9: Then let me

I did not go out that night.

That alone felt wrong.

My room was quiet, but not peaceful. The electric fan hummed softly in the corner, slicing through the thick air in slow, steady rotations. Cars passed outside every few minutes, headlights briefly flashing against my ceiling like silent witnesses.

I lay flat on my bed, phone resting on my stomach, screen dark.

Usually by this time, I would already be standing in front of my mirror.

Hair loose.

Music low.

Red fabric slipping over my shoulders like a second skin.

I would already be shifting.

From Sam to something easier.

But tonight, I stayed still.

Downstairs, the television murmured. My mother’s soft voice occasionally responded to the church program she never missed. A worship song drifted upward first, slow and controlled, followed by a pastor speaking about discipline and moral strength.

My father cleared his throat once or twice. Agreement without interruption.

They thought I was studying.

They always thought I was studying.

The model daughter upstairs.

Safe.

Predictable.

Contained.

I stared at the ceiling until the paint patterns began to blur.

Why does staying in feel heavier than going out?

I turned my head slightly and looked at my closet.

Even from my bed, I could see a faint outline of the red dress hanging between neutral fabrics. It stood out without trying to. Bold against beige. Alive against muted tones.

It felt like it was waiting for me.

But tonight, it didn’t feel powerful.

It felt accusing.

I replayed today in fragments.

The classroom.

The board.

The moment I steadied myself against the desk when the dizziness hit.

Vhan’s eyes narrowing slightly.

Cael’s voice lowering.

And Lucas in the hallway.

Watching.

He didn’t say anything.

That was what bothered me.

If he had spoken, I could have reacted.

If he had teased, I could have deflected.

If he had exposed something, I could have denied it.

But he just looked at me.

Like he remembered something I was trying to forget.

I sat up slowly.

The room tilted for half a second before steadying again.

It’s nothing.

Just stress.

Just lack of sleep.

Just too much thinking.

I stood and walked to the closet.

My fingers brushed the red fabric lightly.

Smooth.

Cool.

Familiar.

How many nights have I used this as an exit?

An excuse.

An alternate version of myself.

When I wear it, no one expects me to be good.

No one expects me to represent anything.

No one watches me like I carry their reputation in my hands.

Noise is easier than silence.

Desire is easier than expectation.

So why am I tired of it tonight?

I closed the closet door gently.

The pastor’s voice downstairs rose slightly, speaking about choices shaping destiny.

Choices.

I leaned my forehead briefly against the wood of the closet.

If my life is built on choices, then who am I choosing to be?

The girl who solves integrals without hesitation.

Or the girl who disappears into dim lights and strangers’ hands.

I returned to my bed and lay down again.

The house felt stable.

Solid.

Certain.

Everything my life is supposed to be.

But inside my chest, something felt like it was shifting quietly. Not dramatic. Not explosive.

Just unstable.

Like the distance between my two versions is shrinking.

And I am running out of space to keep them apart.

I closed my eyes.

For a few seconds, everything felt still.

Then the heaviness returned.

Not sharp.

Not painful.

Just a slow, sinking weight low in my body, like something pulling downward from the inside. My stomach tightened slightly, then released. A dull pressure lingered.

I shifted onto my side.

Maybe I hadn’t eaten enough.

Maybe I’d eaten too much.

Maybe it was just another side effect of sleeping late and pretending I’m invincible.

I placed a hand over my abdomen without thinking.

Warm.

Normal.

Nothing unusual.

So why does it feel unfamiliar?

A faint wave of nausea rose — not enough to make me panic, just enough to make me pause. I swallowed and forced myself to breathe evenly.

You’re overreacting.

You’ve partied harder than this.

You’ve felt worse than this.

This is nothing.

Still, I stayed still for a moment longer.

Listening.

Waiting.

The feeling slowly faded again, like it had the past few days. Quiet. Temporary. Easy to ignore.

See?

Nothing.

I rolled onto my back again, staring at the ceiling.

And that’s when my phone vibrated against my chest.

I froze for a second before flipping it over.

Cael.

Of course.

I stared at his name longer than necessary before answering.

“Hello?”

There was no immediate joke.

No dramatic greeting.

Just his breathing on the other end.

“You’re still awake,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“You sound tired.”

“I am tired.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I swallowed.

He didn’t push often. But when he did, it was quiet. Controlled.

“You weren’t yourself today,” he continued.

“I solved the integral faster than half the class.”

“I’m not talking about math.”

I shifted on the bed, staring at the ceiling again. “Then what are you talking about?”

“You looked like you were somewhere else.”

My fingers tightened around the phone.

“I was in class.”

“Sam.”

The way he said my name felt different tonight.

Not teasing.

Not casual.

Grounded.

“You can tell me if something’s wrong.”

“I already said I’m fine.”

“You say that a lot.”

There was no accusation in his voice. Just observation.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I muttered.

“I want you to stop pretending I don’t notice.”

That made my chest tighten.

“Notice what?”

“That you’ve been off.”

Silence stretched between us.

I could hear something faint on his end. Maybe a fan. Maybe the television in another room.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone,” he said quietly.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“You’re being weird tonight.”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t usually talk like this.”

“I don’t usually feel like this either.”

That caught me.

“Feel like what?”

“Like I’m watching you drift somewhere and I don’t know how to pull you back.”

My throat went dry.

“I’m not drifting.”

“You are.”

The certainty in his voice unsettled me.

“You think you know me that well?”

“I’ve known you since we were kids.”

“That doesn’t mean you know everything.”

“I know enough.”

I turned onto my side, staring at the closet.

“You’re overthinking,” I said softly.

“Maybe,” he replied. “But I’d rather overthink than ignore it.”

Ignore what.

Ignore the way I go quiet.

Ignore the way I disappear inside myself.

Ignore the fact that sometimes I feel split in two.

“Sam,” he said again, lower this time. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

The word strong almost made me laugh.

If he knew.

If he knew what kind of strong I had been pretending to be.

“You don’t know that,” I whispered.

“Then let me.”

The words were simple.

Steady.

Dangerous.

My heartbeat picked up.

He has no idea what he’s asking for.

If he knew everything.

If he knew the nights.

Would he still sound like that?

I swallowed.

“There’s nothing to let you see,” I said.

“That’s not true.”

My fingers tightened around the edge of my pillow.

“I just…” I started, then stopped.

He waited.

That was the problem.

He always waited.

“I just get tired sometimes,” I tried again.

“Of what?”

“Of being…” I hesitated.

Say it.

Say something real.

“Of being expected to be the same all the time,” I finished weakly.

“That’s not the whole thing,” he said quietly.

I closed my eyes.

He could hear it.

The parts I was leaving out.

“You ever feel like,” I began slowly, “if people knew everything about you, they’d look at you differently?”

There.

That was close.

Very close.

The line went silent for a second.

“Yes,” he answered.

The simplicity of it caught me off guard.

“You do?” I whispered.

“Everyone has things they don’t advertise.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

I shifted onto my back again, staring at the ceiling like it could rescue me from this conversation.

“What if,” I said carefully, “someone thought you were… better than you actually are.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“Better how?”

“Like… more decent. More controlled. More…” I swallowed. “Predictable.”

“And you’re not?”

I almost laughed.

“You’d be surprised.”

Another pause.

Then, softer, “Surprise me.”

My heart slammed against my ribs.

He makes it sound easy.

Like I can just open my mouth and let everything spill out.

Like there won’t be consequences.

“I can’t,” I said finally.

“You can’t,” he repeated.

“Or you won’t?”

I turned onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow for a second.

“Why does it matter to you?” I asked.

His answer came faster this time.

“Because I don’t want to be the last one to know who you really are.”

I forced a small laugh.

“You’re overthinking again,” I said lightly. “I’m not some secret villain with a double life.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“I know,” I replied quickly. “I just… you’re making it sound bigger than it is.”

Silence.

I grabbed the first safe subject I could find.

“Did you finish the physics assignment?” I asked.

There.

Deflection.

He exhaled softly on the other end. Not annoyed. Just aware.

“Really?”

“What?” I said, feigning innocence.

“You’re switching topics.”

“Because you’re interrogating me.”

“I’m not interrogating you.”

“You kind of are.”

Another pause.

Then his tone shifted slightly. Lighter. But not fully.

“Yes, I finished the assignment,” he said. “You?”

“Obviously.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“I solved it in fifteen minutes.”

“Show off.”

“Accurate.”

For a few seconds, it almost felt normal again.

Almost.

But the tension hadn’t disappeared. It just moved underneath.

“You’re good at this,” he said suddenly.

“At what?”

“Acting like nothing’s wrong.”

My smile faded.

“I told you, nothing is wrong.”

“I didn’t say something was wrong.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he replied carefully, “that you don’t let people get close enough to see when something is.”

I stared at the wall.

“You’re close enough,” I said before I could stop myself.

The line went very quiet.

“Am I?” he asked.

The question sat there.

Heavy.

Too heavy.

I swallowed. “You’ve known me forever.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

My chest tightened again.

“You’re being dramatic,” I muttered.

“And you’re avoiding.”

I pressed the phone harder against my ear.

“I’m just tired,” I said finally. “Can we not do this tonight?”

Another pause.

Then softer, “Okay.”

Not angry.

Not defeated.

Just… okay.

And somehow that hurt more.

“You should sleep,” he added after a moment.

“You too.”

“Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever decide you don’t want to pretend anymore… I’m still here.”

My throat went tight again.

“Goodnight, Cael.”

“Goodnight.”

The line disconnected.

The room felt bigger somehow.

Too quiet.

I placed my phone on the nightstand and turned onto my back, staring at the ceiling again. The fan continued its steady rotation above me. Outside, a car passed. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and then stopped.

Normal sounds.

Normal night.

I let out a slow breath.

He thinks I’m pretending.

Maybe I am.

Maybe I’ve gotten so used to splitting myself in half that I don’t even know where the line is anymore.

Sam in daylight.

Someone else when the lights go off.

My body shifted slightly under the blanket.

And then I felt it again.

That strange weight.

Lower this time.

Not sharp. Not painful. Just present.

I frowned and placed my hand absentmindedly over my stomach.

Warm.

Still.

Unremarkable.

It’s nothing.

Just stress.

Just exhaustion.

Just me overthinking because he asked the wrong questions at the wrong time.

I closed my eyes, keeping my palm there for a second longer than necessary.

The feeling didn’t disappear immediately.

But it didn’t get worse either.

So I let it go.

“Nothing,” I whispered into the darkness, more to myself than anyone else.

The house was silent.

And for the first time in a long time, the quiet didn’t feel peaceful.

It felt like something waiting.