ALMOST
1174 Words
MATT'S POV
There’s something about Raven’s silence that gets under my skin.
Not in a bad way. Not even in a way I understand.
It’s just… loud.
Somehow louder than Ruth’s laugh echoing down the halls, louder than the cafeteria at peak noise, louder than Coach yelling drills at practice.
She doesn't talk much, but when she does, her words feel like they were dug up — not spoken.
And the weirdest part?
It’s starting to feel like I wait for them.
The thing is, I’ve known sadness.
That quiet, numbing kind that makes your hands heavy. The kind that makes getting out of bed a full-body negotiation. I’ve lived in it. I’ve had days where I carried it like it was stitched to my hoodie.
But Raven… hers feels different.
Like she’s not just sad. She’s haunted.
By something no one else sees.
And I don’t know what I’m doing getting pulled into that. I’ve got things to do — GPA to hold, team responsibilities, June to help with, school, volunteer work, future plans.
And yet —
One post from her, one long stare in the hallway, and it’s like my brain reroutes itself around her.
I hate how real that sounds.
How true it feels.
Ruth doesn’t even sit with her anymore.
They haven’t spoken in weeks, as far as I can tell.
And Raven looks…
I don’t know. Not broken. Not fragile. Just… dimmed. Like someone turned down her brightness and forgot to turn it back on.
I asked Ruth once — offhand, in class — if Raven was okay.
She blinked like I’d just asked her if the sky was melting.
“She’s fine,” she said too fast.
That was it. She looked away. I didn’t ask again.
But I knew.
I knew she wasn’t fine.
And I knew Ruth knew it too.
Friday afternoon, we meet again to work on our project.
Same library table. Same hour. This time, I bring snacks — not because I think she’ll want any, but because I hate how quiet her stomach sounds when we sit for too long.
She shows up late. Hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Sketchbook peeking out of her backpack.
She slides into the seat across from me and mutters, “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say.
We fall into a rhythm — notes, research, occasional grunts of agreement.
Then I notice it.
Her hand’s shaking a little. Not violently. Just… subtly. Like she’s holding something back.
“Cold?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up. “No.”
Silence again.
I chew the inside of my cheek. “You’ve been posting some heavy stuff lately.”
That gets her attention.
She looks up, eyes sharp. “You follow me?”
“Everyone does.”
“Do they look?”
“I do.”
That stops her.
She closes her laptop slowly, almost too carefully, like she’s bracing for something.
“Why?”
I’m not sure how to answer.
Because I’m worried?
Because I’m curious?
Because you look like someone I used to be?
“I don’t know,” I say.
But I do.
And she knows I do.
We don’t talk much after that.
But something hangs in the air between us.
And for the first time since we were assigned this project, I can feel her watching me too — not in the way that made me feel exposed.
In the way that made me feel seen.
The next time I see her is the following Wednesday.
She’s alone again, outside the school library, sitting on the stone ledge by the steps with her sketchbook half-open and her phone screen lit up beside her. The wind's pulling at her hoodie strings. She doesn’t move.
I’m not planning to talk to her.
But I walk over anyway.
She doesn’t look up as I sit down next to her, close enough to feel the edge of her silence, far enough that she doesn’t bolt.
For a moment, we just sit.
Then she speaks — soft, like she’s testing whether I’m real.
> “You ever think you’re the only real person in a hallway full of extras?”
It catches me off guard.
Not the weirdness of it — but the truth in it.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sometimes it’s like everyone else is moving on a loop.”
She nods. “And you’re just... frozen.”
I glance at her. Her face is still turned toward the street, but her voice has this distant edge. Like she’s telling a story she’s not finished living.
“What do you do when that happens?” I ask.
She lets out a quiet laugh — one of the first I’ve heard from her.
“You wait for someone to notice.”
She flips a page in her sketchbook and shows me.
It’s a drawing. Not a clean one. Not a finished one.
Two people sitting on opposite sides of a glass wall. One of them has their hand pressed against it. The other is walking away.
I don’t say anything.
She doesn’t either.
But I feel it.
The crack between us starting to open — just wide enough for air.
Back inside, we sit at our usual table.
No headphones. No laptops. Just paper and pens.
We’re supposed to be outlining the myth of Persephone and Hades — the abduction, the compromise, the seasons.
But instead, Raven says:
> “Do you think Persephone ever wanted to go back?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… what if the Underworld felt more like home than the place she left behind?”
I stare at her.
“I always thought the story was about survival,” I say. “Not escape.”
She looks down at the table, then back at me.
“Maybe they’re the same thing.”
I should say something else. Something smart. Something to change the subject before I start drowning in whatever this is.
But I don’t.
Because the way she’s looking at me — it’s not a stare anymore. It’s an invitation.
And suddenly, I want to know everything she isn’t saying.
Later, as we’re packing up, I stop her.
“Raven.”
She looks up.
“Are you okay?”
She pauses.
Then says, “No.”
And for the first time, I believe her.
We walk out together.
The sun’s almost down, painting the front of the school gold. She keeps her arms wrapped around herself like she’s bracing for something colder than the wind.
I want to ask her what she meant.
I want to ask what’s haunting her.
But instead, I just say, “Text me when you get home.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just nods.
But it’s the kind of nod that means more than silence.
And it follows me all the way home.
That night, she doesn’t post anything.
No black slides.
No cryptic quotes.
No ghosts in sketch form.
And somehow…
That worries me more than the darkness ever did.
- Writer
