Chapter Eight: Read Receipts
448 Words
The morning passed like fog — slow and quiet.
Max walked into school with his hoodie up and headphones in, but no music playing. He just wanted to disappear into the rhythm of people moving, doors closing, announcements echoing from the ceiling.
No reply from Hazel.
No reply from Isabella.
But the messages?
Read.
---
At lunch, Dele and the boys were still clowning around, throwing fries and arguing about the weekend match.
But Max wasn’t laughing.
He sat quietly, half-listening, checking his phone like it might blink with hope.
Nothing.
“Still no word?” Dele asked, nudging him.
“Nope.”
Jay leaned across the table. “Bro, maybe they’re just trying to humble you. Girls love suspense.”
Max shook his head. “No… This isn’t a game to them.”
Victor smirked. “It was to you, though.”
That stung. But Max didn’t argue.
Because they were right.
---
After school, Max waited near the library steps.
Isabella passed by first. She didn’t look surprised to see him — just tired.
“Isabella,” he started, standing.
She paused.
“I wasn’t trying to play you,” he said. “The bet… It started stupid, but it’s not what you think. I—”
“You don’t have to explain,” she cut in. “I heard enough from Hazel.”
Her voice was soft, but her words were sharp.
“I don’t think you’re a bad person, Max. I just think you got caught up trying to prove something.”
He opened his mouth to respond — but she was already walking away.
---
Hazel came out next.
She wore her usual confidence like armor, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.
“You’re really standing here doing the walk of shame for both of us?” she said, half-laughing.
Max forced a smile. “I deserved worse.”
Hazel stepped forward, eyes narrowing slightly.
“You’re lucky I’m not the revenge type.”
“I know.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then…
“I didn’t delete your message.”
Max blinked.
Hazel leaned in just a little and whispered, “Doesn’t mean I forgave you. But I didn’t delete it.”
Then she was gone.
---
That night, Max opened a blank page in his sketchpad — not to draw, but to write.
Not for Hazel.
Not for Isabella.
But for himself.
A new page.
A new chapter.
No games.
No lies.
Just Max — trying to figure out how to be better than the boy who walked through those gates a few weeks ago.
And for the first time since arriving at Marcecue High…
That felt like enough.
- Writer
