He Deserved It

CHAPTER 23 – Unspoken

Mila barely made it through the door before chaos swallowed her whole.

Cumbia blared from the half-broken Bluetooth speaker, her mom was burning a tortilla and stirring mole at the same time, and Diego shot past her shirtless, chocolate smeared across his face like war paint. Someone’s random sock clung to the bottom of her slipper.

“¡Mila! Tell your brother he’s not getting churros until he takes a shower!” her mom yelled over the sizzling pan.

She dropped her backpack by the door. “I plead the fifth!”

“No te me hagas la chistosa!”

Joaquin and Mateo were already screaming at each other about who got more couch. Her dad shouted from the hallway, asking where the hell his keys were.

It smelled like cinnamon, burnt sugar, and too many people breathing the same air.

She ducked under the archway and slipped into the garage, pulse still thumping. Paint cans lined the shelves. Her folding table was right where she left it, covered in dried glitter glue and old ink stains. A half-finished sunflower sketch poked out from under a laminated lunch menu.

This was supposed to be hers. Her space. But somehow even in here, it felt like the whole house was pressing in.

She stared at her sunflower sketch, fighting the tightness in her chest. Even the garage felt too small, like the walls were leaning closer every time someone shouted her name. She needed air. Space. Something that didn’t smell like paint and burnt mole.

She snatched her hoodie and sketchbook, yelled “Going for a walk!” into the chaos, and slammed the door before anyone could object.

Outside, December air slapped her cheeks, sharp and piney, like it was daring her to breathe. She stuffed her hands into her sleeves and ducked her head as she cut past the soccer field, ignoring the echo of whistles and the smell of carne asada drifting from the taquería, which still clung to its sagging Christmas lights like it couldn’t let the holidays go.

She slowed near the mural she’d painted the summer before college—bright oranges and teal swirls, a girl with wings standing on a rooftop, looking free. Now, someone had scrawled a cartoon d**k across the corner in neon pink.

Mila rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. Figures. People always wanted to mark things they didn’t understand.

She shoved her hands deeper into her sleeves and kept moving. She told herself she was just walking to walk. Clear her head. But somehow her steps kept drifting south, toward streets she’d been avoiding all break. Toward places with ghosts.

The alley behind the hardware store was narrow, unlit, and smelled faintly of wet concrete and old spray paint. Her feet carried her there before she even realized where she was going.

This was the spot.

Where it all started.

The first kiss.

She remembered how he’d shown up after one of her mural shifts, carrying mango juice and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos like he’d invented the concept of romance. Sat on a busted milk crate while she painted, watching her like she was the Sistine Chapel instead of a wall behind a hardware store.

Then he’d asked if he could add something.

A crooked little crown, sprayed next to her name.

And then he kissed her.

Mila leaned back against the brick, paint flecks pressing into her hoodie. She stared up at the thing she’d written that night—the words she’d sworn meant everything once.

Some names aren’t spoken. They’re painted.

She’d scrawled it in thick white paint under a spray of gold sunbursts. He’d touched her hand when she capped the can and murmured it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever read.

And she’d believed him. Because he kissed her like she was art. Like she was untouchable.

She hadn’t come back here since prom.

But now—

Her breath caught.

Underneath her tag, someone had written:

I miss you too.

Same paint. Same cap. Smaller, careful letters.

Her whole body went still, like the air had frozen inside her lungs.

She edged closer, barely daring to blink. The handwriting wasn’t hers. It wasn’t fast and wild. It was deliberate. Intimate.

It hadn’t been there before.

She shot a glance over her shoulder.

Nothing.

Just a battered trash can and the scrape of a beer can rolling down the alley.

She turned back to the wall, pulse hammering.

Her chest tightened, breath hitching like it might split her in half.

Don’t cry. Don’t give him that.

But her eyes burned anyway, hot and stinging, and she blinked hard until the tears retreated.

She thought, for one brief second, about calling Lia. About telling Savannah or Imani.

But what would she even say?

Hey. He’s still in my walls.

Once, those words were a love letter. Now they felt like an open door she hadn’t meant to leave unlocked.

She stared at the wall for another minute, fighting the urge to scrub the words off with her sleeve. Instead, she turned and forced herself to walk away, counting her steps like it might keep her brain from spinning. By the time she reached her block, the cold had numbed her face, but not the tightness in her chest.

Back home, the oven alarm was shrieking, Diego was running around wrapped in a bath towel yelling he was a burrito, and Joaquin was pissed because no one saved him the last scoop of arroz.

Mila stood frozen in the doorway, hoodie zipped up to her chin, feeling like an intruder in her own house.

“¿Todo bien, mija?” her mom called, stirring the mole.

Mila forced a smile. “Yeah. Just cold.”

She squeezed past them, ignoring Diego’s sticky fingers grabbing for her sleeve.

Her room felt smaller than it used to. Same glow-in-the-dark stars peeling off the ceiling. Same cracked mirror leaning against the dresser. Same leaning tower of sketchbooks on the desk.

She pulled one off the stack and flipped toward the back. Her eyes landed on a half-finished sketch of the alley wall.

Not the wall as it looked now.

The way it used to look.

Before everything broke.

She slammed it shut, throat tight.

Then she saw it.

An older sketchbook—the one she thought she’d lost months ago—lying right there on her bed like it belonged.

Her stomach dropped so fast it felt like missing a step on the stairs.

She picked it up, fingers trembling. Flipped through pages that smelled faintly of graphite and old coffee.

One page was gone.

Torn clean out.

A portrait of Jordan. The one she’d drawn the week he kissed her in the alley. The one nobody was ever supposed to see.

Gone.

Mila sat there for a minute, staring at the empty spot where the missing page should’ve been.

Then she dropped the sketchbook and scanned her room, her pulse thudding in her ears.

She crossed to the window and checked the latch. It was pushed shut but not locked. A thin draft curled around the edges, cool against her fingers.

Could someone have come in?

Or had she left the book out herself and just… forgotten?

She tried to picture herself tossing it on the bed. Couldn’t. But the idea someone else had been in her room made her skin crawl.

She flicked the lock into place and drew the curtain closed, telling herself she was being dramatic.

But even as she climbed onto her bed, every shadow felt closer than it should.

Later that night, her phone buzzed on her pillow.

A text from Lia: When your college roommate has never heard of Hot Cheetos and thinks Valentina is a country.

Mila snorted and shot back a laugh emoji.

Savannah chimed in: Uncultured.

Imani added: We riot at dawn.

Mila grinned, warmth flickering in her chest for a second.

But she didn’t type: I found a message on my wall tonight.

She didn’t say anything about the handwriting.

Or the sketchbook that showed up like a ghost.

Or how, for one sharp second in that alley, her heart had kicked against her ribs like it remembered being wanted.

Instead, she scrolled back through their chat, let her thumb hover over the keyboard… and finally just typed another emoji.

She dropped the phone on her nightstand and stared at the ceiling for a second, feeling the quiet close in. The laughter in the chat felt miles away. Too bright for the heaviness crawling up her throat.

Later, with the lights off and her headphones jammed in, Mila stared up at the glow-in-the-dark stars peeling off her ceiling.

She hated that she still remembered how Jordan used to say her name. Slow. Like it tasted sweet coming off his tongue.

Hated that a part of her still believed she was special because he let her see him soft. Hated that she could still hear his voice the night he told her she mattered.

She squeezed her eyes shut and cranked the volume higher until the bass rattled in her chest. She let the music shove everything else into the background.

But even with her eyes closed, she could still see his handwriting. Bright as neon. Like it was burned onto the inside of her eyelids.

Some truths didn’t need to be spoken out loud.

And some scars didn’t need fresh paint.

Not yet.