Chapter 9: He Said He Was Fine.
851 Words
“It’s always the strongest ones who hide pain behind a smile.”
— Wendy
For three days, Wayne didn’t show up to school.
No calls.
No texts.
No explanations.
At first, I told myself he just needed space — space after the rooftop confrontation, space after Calvin, space after being suspended and dragged into drama he never asked for. Wayne wasn’t the type to spiral. He always seemed calm, steady, untouched by chaos.
But by the third day, worry had started eating me alive.
I caught myself checking the school gate every few minutes, pretending to stretch, pretending to look busy, pretending my heart wasn’t racing. Every time a tall figure walked in, my chest lifted — only to fall again when it wasn’t him.
Even Taylor noticed.
“Wendy,” she said as we sat on the bench after class, watching clouds roll lazily across the sky. “Stop pretending you’re not worried.”
“I’m fine,” I muttered.
She tilted her head. “You’ve been zoning out since morning devotion. You almost wrote Wayne’s name instead of the date in class.”
I groaned. “He said he was fine.”
“When?”
“The night after the rooftop thing,” I replied. “He texted.”
Taylor snorted. “Texting ‘I’m fine’ is the universal language for ‘I am absolutely not fine.’”
I wanted to laugh. But my chest felt too heavy.
Wayne always wore strength like a second skin. He smiled easily. He protected people without thinking about the cost. He never complained. But lately, even his silence sounded like a scream.
That night, I barely slept.
By morning, something inside me had already decided.
I found him during second period.
Behind the old art block — the one most students forgot existed. The walls were covered in faded murals and chipped paint. Rainwater pooled near the edges, and the air smelled damp, quiet, untouched.
He sat on the low concrete ledge, shoulders slightly slumped.
Wayne.
His shirt was untucked. His hair messier than usual. His eyes looked tired — not sleepy tired, but the kind of tired that lives inside the chest.
“You’ve been ghosting everyone,” I said softly.
He smiled without looking at me. “Didn’t mean to.”
I stepped closer. “You didn’t answer my messages.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I just needed to clear my head.”
“About Calvin?”
He shook his head slowly. “About life.”
I sat beside him, leaving a careful inch of space between us. “That’s a very big topic for ten in the morning.”
He huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Guess I picked the wrong time.”
We sat in silence for a moment. The wind brushed past us, cool and gentle.
“You ever feel like everything is too much,” he said quietly, “but you don’t even know how to explain why?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
I knew that feeling too well — when your thoughts become noise, when your chest feels heavier than your body, when you’re tired of being strong but don’t know how to stop.
“Wayne,” I said softly, turning to him. “You don’t always have to be the strong one.”
He finally looked at me.
And something in his eyes cracked.
“I’m not strong, Wendy,” he admitted. “I just don’t want people to see when I’m falling apart.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
I reached out slowly and placed my hand over his. It felt warm. Real. He didn’t pull away.
“You don’t have to hide with me,” I said. “You don’t have to perform. You can just… be.”
He stared at our hands like he didn’t trust what he was seeing.
“That’s what scares me,” he whispered.
“Why?”
“Because every time I let someone see me,” he said quietly, “they leave.”
My chest tightened.
I squeezed his hand gently. “I’m not leaving since we seem to be the same anyway,scared of being left behind”
He blinked, like he was trying to understand the words. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It was full — full of unspoken fears, shared weight, and something fragile slowly learning how to breathe.
Then the rain started.
Soft at first. Light drops tapping against the roof. Then heavier. Steady. Soaking.
We didn’t move.
We just sat there, getting drenched, shoulders brushing, hearts unguarded.
For the first time, it didn’t feel like we were running from something.
It felt like healing.
Later that night, my phone buzzed.
Wayne had posted a w******p story.
Black background.
White text.
“She stayed when it rained.”
I stared at it for a long time.
Smiling.
Crying.
Both at once.
Because sometimes love isn’t loud.
Sometimes it doesn’t shout or demand or hurt.
Sometimes love is just someone who sits beside you in the rain…
and doesn’t leave.
- Writer
