When summer learned to breathe

CHAPTER 15: ALMOST STRANGERS

It happened on a Tuesday.

The school gym had been turned into a maze of folding chairs for a guest speaker, and of course, fate decided to put Adrian and me in the same row. Not side by side, not even close enough to whisper, but close enough that I could feel the pull of his presence, like gravity.

I tried not to look at him. I told myself to focus on the speaker droning about leadership and “embracing our future.” But every few minutes, my eyes betrayed me, sneaking a glance down the row where Adrian sat.

And every time, I caught him doing the same.

At the end of the assembly, chaos broke loose as everyone stood up at once. The crowd surged, and before I could slip away, someone bumped me hard from behind. My bag spilled open, notebooks and pens scattering across the floor.

“Sorry!” a freshman mumbled, disappearing into the sea of students.

I knelt quickly, scooping up my things only to see another hand reach for my journal at the same time.

Adrian’s hand.

For a second, we both froze, fingers brushing against the worn cover. Electricity raced through me, the kind I’d spent days trying to forget.

He cleared his throat, handing it to me. “Here.”

“Thanks,” I whispered, not meeting his eyes.

The crowd pressed around us, shoving us closer until we were nearly shoulder to shoulder. The noise of a hundred voices filled the gym, but all I could hear was the thunder of my own heartbeat.

When the crowd thinned, I expected him to walk away. To leave me clutching my bag and pretending I wasn’t unraveling.

But he didn’t.

“Summer,” he said quietly, his voice almost lost in the noise. “Can we… talk?”

I stiffened. “About what?”

His eyes flickered, unsure. “About us.”

The word us was a knife and a balm all at once. I wanted to grab it, to hold it tight, to believe it still existed. But I was so tired of bleeding.

“I don’t think there is an ‘us’ anymore,” I said, forcing the words out.

For the first time, I saw something crack in his expression, pain, real and raw.

“That’s not what I want,” he said.

“Then what do you want?” My voice wavered, louder than I meant. “Because I can’t keep guessing. I can’t keep being the only one who feels this.”

Around us, people brushed past, too busy to notice two hearts colliding and breaking in the middle of the gym.

Adrian’s shoulders tensed. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know I don’t want to lose you.”

The words stung. They weren’t enough. Not anymore.

“You already did,” I whispered.

And before he could say anything else, I walked away.

That night, I sat on the edge of my bed, my phone in my hand. His words looped through my head, a cruel echo: I don’t know. I don’t want to lose you.

How could he not know? How could he not see that I was right here, holding my heart out to him?

I typed his name into my phone, stared at the empty message box, then slammed it shut.

No. If he wanted me, he’d have to fight for me.

Because I couldn’t keep chasing someone who didn’t know if he wanted to be caught.

The next day, in the hallway, we passed each other again. He slowed like he wanted to say something. I felt the same pull, the same ache.

But neither of us spoke.

We were almost strangers now.

Almost.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything else.