CHAPTER 17: WHAT WE CARRY
1667 Words
Chidera’s POV
She pulls away from me like she just remembered she isn’t allowed to need anyone.
It isn’t violent.
But it’s deliberate.
Her arms drop from around my shirt. The warmth disappears. The space between us fills with awareness.
Her eyes are red. Not soft red. Not delicate.
Raw.
“How do you know?”
Her voice doesn’t tremble.
It demands.
I stay kneeling in front of her. I don’t move too fast. I’ve learned that about Aurora — sudden movements feel like pressure.
“How do you know about the accident?” she asks again.
The word accident sounds wrong in her mouth. Too small. Too harmless.
I inhale slowly.
“It was on the news.”
Her face changes.
Not shocked.
Not surprised.
Just… guarded.
“It was three years ago,” I continue. “Late night. Head-on collision. Vehicle explosion. One fatality.”
She closes her eyes briefly.
“They said your name.”
Silence.
“They showed a picture,” I add carefully. “You weren’t crying.”
Her eyes open.
Something sharp flickers there.
“Should I have been?” she asks.
“No,” I say immediately.
“You looked empty,” I explain instead. “Like you had already decided something about yourself.”
Her jaw tightens.
“You didn’t know me.”
“No.”
“Then why remember?”
Because you looked like someone who blamed herself before the world could.
Because I know that look.
Because I’ve worn it.
But I don’t say all that.
“Some stories don’t leave,” I say quietly.
She studies me like I’m on trial.
“You could’ve told people,” she says. “You could’ve used it.”
Her voice isn’t accusing.
It’s defensive.
“I don’t weaponize pain,” I reply.
Her breathing shifts.
Something in her posture softens before she catches it.
“You’ve been looking at me differently since we met,” she says.
I don’t deny it.
“You carry yourself like someone holding something fragile,” I tell her.
“I’m not fragile.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
Silence stretches.
The practice room feels too small for everything unsaid.
“You looked at me like you knew,” she whispers.
“I did.”
She turns away from me, walking toward the mirror.
Her reflection stares back at her — composed even after crying.
“I snapped today,” she murmurs.
“I know.”
“I scared Dawn.”
“Yes.”
“And Yemisi.”
“Yes.”
She laughs under her breath. Bitter.
“I don’t do that.”
“You’re allowed to.”
She turns sharply.
“No. I’m not.”
The certainty in her voice hits me.
“Why not?”
“Because if I lose control,” she says, “then what was the point of surviving?”
The room goes still.
There it is.
The truth.
She thinks composure is repayment.
Like being balanced is her apology to the universe.
“You surviving wasn’t a debt,” I say carefully.
“You don’t know that.”
I step closer.
Slowly.
Not touching.
“You were a child,” I say.
“I was selfish.”
“You were seventeen.”
“I snuck out.”
“You trusted the wrong person.”
“I caused it.”
“No.”
Her eyes flash.
“You don’t get to tell me what I caused.”
She’s shaking again.
But not from anger.
From the weight of memory pressing in.
I close the distance another inch.
“Do you know what I remember most about that news?” I ask.
She doesn’t respond.
“They said your brother forced your door open.”
Her breathing stops.
“They said witnesses saw you trying to go back.”
Her shoulders tense.
“You were screaming his name.”
Her eyes fill again.
“You didn’t walk away.”
She swallows hard.
“He pushed me out,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“I tried to pull him out.”
“I know.”
“I couldn’t—”
Her voice breaks.
And this time she doesn’t stop it.
I reach out slowly.
Rest my hand lightly against her wrist.
She freezes.
But she doesn’t pull away.
“You didn’t choose yourself,” I say quietly. “You were chosen by circumstance.”
She looks at our hands.
Then at me.
Her voice drops to something almost fragile.
“If I tell you to forget it… would you?”
“No.”
Her lips twitch.
“Stubborn.”
“Selective.”
The tension shifts.
Not grief now.
Something else.
Awareness.
Her eyes move over my face like she’s memorizing it.
“You look at me like I’m breakable,” she says softly.
“I look at you like you’re human.”
That does something.
Something quiet but powerful.
She steps closer.
Now I can feel her breath.
“You’re dangerous,” she murmurs.
“Why?”
“You see too much.”
“And you hide too well.”
The air thickens.
The kind of silence where every movement feels amplified.
Her fingers hover near mine.
Not touching.
But almost.
“You don’t get to look at me like that in public,” she says.
“Like what?”
“Like you know.”
“I do know.”
Her breath falters.
For a second — just one — I think she might close the distance.
Instead she turns.
But as she walks past me, her fingers brush mine.
Intentional.
Light.
Electric.
And she doesn’t apologize.
Yemisi’s POV
I don’t like not knowing.
And I don’t like when things shift.
Aurora snapped today.
Not irritated.
Not sharp.
She fractured.
And that doesn’t happen.
I pretend I’m unaffected.
But I skipped my next class.
My feet bring me somewhere familiar.
The music room.
It’s quiet when I push the door open.
But it’s not empty.
Tayo is sitting at the piano.
Not playing.
Just… sitting.
His fingers rest on the keys like he forgot what to do next.
He looks up when he hears me.
Surprise flickers across his face.
Then it disappears behind that usual half-smirk.
“Didn’t expect you,” he says.
“Same.”
I step inside fully.
The door closes behind me with a soft click.
The air changes immediately.
History lives here.
Unresolved tension.
Arguments that never finished.
Things said out of pride.
“You’re skipping,” he observes.
“So are you.”
He exhales through his nose.
Almost amused.
I glance at the empty chairs.
“I thought Aurora would be here.”
“She won’t.”
“You sure?”
“I saw her leave with Chidera.”
Something tightens in my chest.
Not jealousy.
Just… something.
“Oh.”
Silence stretches.
It isn’t comfortable.
But it isn’t hostile either.
It’s loaded.
“You care about her,” he says suddenly.
“I care about all of them.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I look at him sharply.
“What are you implying?”
He presses a key gently.
A single note echoes.
“You act like you’re untouchable,” he says. “But you’re always the first to notice when something’s wrong.”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me.”
“Someone has to.”
I roll my eyes.
But I don’t leave.
Why don’t I leave?
He leans back slightly.
“You explode,” he says. “She implodes.”
I cross my arms.
“And you?”
He presses another key.
“I disappear.”
That catches me off guard.
“What?”
“I pretend I don’t feel things.”
The honesty feels foreign coming from him.
“You’re bad at pretending,” I say quietly.
He looks up at me.
No smirk.
No defense.
“And you’re bad at asking for help.”
That hits too close.
“I don’t need help.”
He stands slowly.
Now we’re facing each other.
Closer than before.
“You think control makes you strong,” he says.
“It does.”
“No,” he replies softly. “It just makes you tired.”
The room feels smaller.
Warmer.
“You think you know me?” I ask.
“I think you’re scared.”
My jaw tightens.
“Of what?”
“Losing people.”
The words land like a stone dropped into still water.
Ripples everywhere.
I look away first.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“You don’t let anyone close,” he continues gently. “Because if they leave, you can pretend it didn’t matter.”
“Stop.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t get to—”
“Because it’s true?”
My chest rises sharply.
He steps closer.
Not aggressive.
Just present.
“You’re not as cold as you pretend,” he says.
“And you’re not as careless as you pretend,” I fire back.
That makes him pause.
Something shifts in his expression.
“You think I don’t notice?” I continue. “The way you sit alone. The way you laugh too loud. The way you avoid real conversations.”
His voice drops.
“You’re watching me too?”
“Unfortunately.”
For a moment —
There’s no pride.
No defense.
Just two people who see more than they should.
“You care,” he says softly.
“Don’t.”
“You do.”
“I said don’t.”
The silence that follows is intense.
Not angry.
Not tender.
Just charged.
We’re close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating off him.
If either of us moved an inch—
“You should go,” he says quietly.
“So should you.”
Neither of us steps back.
Neither of us steps forward.
And for the first time since walking in—
The music room doesn’t feel like an escape.
It feels like the beginning of something neither of us is ready to admit.
- Writer
