The Brink of Light

Chapter 2: Eva

The house greeted me with the familiar scent of laundry detergent and the creak of the hallway floor. Everything was exactly as I’d left it, but somehow, I felt like I had outgrown it over the summer.

Mom was in the kitchen, as usual, hunched over a stack of papers with her usual serious expression. We exchanged a few words about my trip back, about camp. She said something like, “The important thing is you’re back in one piece,” and I knew the conversation was over.

I tossed my bag onto my bed and looked out the window. The yard below seemed unchanged, but inside me, everything felt different. I needed to get out of the house. I missed Sam.

We’d spent most of the summer apart—me at camp, him at culinary classes. I smiled at the thought of finally seeing my best friend again.

I texted him:

“Hey, fiancé, still remember me? I missed you. I want to talk your ear off for a week straight.”

His reply came almost instantly:

“You’re alive? Please tell me camp didn’t turn you into a megaphone-wielding social activist. Take me on a date, and I’ll bake something amazing.”

My fifteenth birthday was low-key, but warm.

Sam and I met up in the morning, and he immediately handed me a box of still-warm enchiladas. Cooking was his therapy, his way of fighting off the rest of life. His smile said everything: Here, I made this for you. I know you’ll love it.

“You know no one else loves you like I do, right?” he said, passing me the box.

“Is that about me or you?” I teased.

He laughed, and we spent the rest of the day together. That evening, two girls from school joined us for pizza. We argued about the best Batman iteration and made plans for the weekend.

Before we parted ways, Sam reminded me of our long-standing joke.

“Even if no one wants to marry you by the time you’re seventy-four, I’ll still be here.”

“Just make sure to bake an incredible wedding cake,” I said, grinning.

My birthday had been sweet and simple, but when I lay down that night, something was still missing. Maybe it was the freedom I’d felt at camp. Maybe it was Sophie, who had a way of pulling me out of the monotony of life.

Almost as if by magic, my phone buzzed.

“How’s life after camp?” Sophie asked.

“Sam brought me so much food, I’ll barely fit through the door soon,” I replied.

She snorted.

“That’s great and all, but I can tell I’ll still have to save you.”

“From what?”

“From boredom, obviously.”

We talked for hours about everything: her new school, my teachers, the petty dramas from camp. Then I remembered something I’d seen.

“Hey, when I was out with Sam, we walked past a poster. You’ll never guess who it was for. The Hollow Lights.”

Sophie fell silent for a moment.

“Are you serious?”

“Completely. They’re playing at a club not far from my house.”

“And you don’t have tickets yet?”

“Who would I even go with?”

“Me,” she said with total confidence. “I’ll talk to my mom. She’s been wanting to visit Boston anyway. I’ll just tag this on.”

“You’ve got a week to figure it out.”

“Bet I’ll do it in a day,” she shot back, her confidence infectious.

When I met Sophie at the train station, I felt equal parts excitement and nervousness. Clubs weren’t my usual scene, but with her, everything felt easier.

“Ready to finally come out of your shell?” she asked instead of saying hello.

The club was small and cramped, its peeling walls saturated with the smell of beer and cigarettes. The crowd wasn’t huge, but it packed tightly around the stage. A few girls near the front shuffled on their feet, barely able to contain their excitement.

I felt out of place in all the buzzing energy, but there was also a growing sense of anticipation I couldn’t shake.

When The Hollow Lights took the stage, the room’s focus immediately zeroed in on him.

Jaden Krauss.

Tall, lean, his toned arms looking effortlessly strong without being overdone. His dark, slightly wavy hair fell just to his chin, framing a face that could have belonged to a tortured artist in a painting. It shifted with every movement, occasionally obscuring his almost-black, piercing brown eyes. He wore a simple black T-shirt, ripped jeans, and heavy boots. Silver hoops and bars gleamed in his ears. Everything about him screamed that he knew exactly how good he looked, and somehow, that made him even more magnetic.

His arms were marked with scattered tattoos that seemed to follow no real plan. A skeletal figure with wings stretched across his forearm, resembling In Utero’s album art. Beside it was a random squiggle, like a line drawn in a moment of whimsy.

When he grabbed the mic, his movements were languid, almost lazy, yet they carried a quiet intensity. His voice, gravelly and deep, oscillated between raw aggression and barely audible whispers.

Occasionally, he licked his lips, and the flash of a tongue piercing caught the light. The girls at the front lost it every time, their squeals filling the air. I clenched my jaw, feeling ridiculous for even noticing. Of course, he knew the effect he had. Everything about him said he knew.

When the first notes of “Neon Tides” began, I froze. It was the same song Sophie had played for me on the dock. Back then, it had felt soothing, like a protective cocoon. Now, it roared through the room with an edge that demanded attention, like someone shouting, Wake up!

I glanced at Sophie. She was smiling, but her expression was sharp, focused.

At one point, Jaden’s eyes scanned the room and landed somewhere in my direction. My heart clenched, and I quickly looked away. It wasn’t even a real moment, just a passing glance. But it felt like it belonged to me, and that annoyed me.

I wasn’t one of those girls screaming at rock stars. I didn’t throw myself at people who didn’t even know my name.

But when his voice dropped to a whisper, it felt like he was speaking directly to me. My chest tightened, and I turned my face away, biting my lip. It was just a voice. Just a person. So why couldn’t I shake the lump in my throat?

His movements were fluid, yet deliberate. He’d push his hair back with casual precision, toying with the mic stand as if testing the limits of his control. Once, his hand brushed his face, wiping something off his chin, and then he smirked—a quick, self-satisfied curve of his lips.

When the song ended, the crowd erupted into cheers and applause. My pulse raced faster than I wanted to admit.

“Welcome to the fan club,” Sophie said, watching me closely.

I shook my head, unsure of what to say.

“What? He got to you too, didn’t he?” she teased.

“I don’t know,” I muttered.

“Well, he’s good at it,” Sophie said with a shrug. “Girls love bad boys with guitars. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

He didn’t even know I existed. And I didn’t need him to. All I wanted was to keep this feeling—this fleeting, private moment, like a distant star shining just for me.

Of course, that wasn’t true. But at fifteen, I didn’t need the truth.