April 12 – Friday / St. Ivy High – Class 1-A, Rooftop, and Home Economics Room
Earth Beneath the Surface
By Friday, the whispers had shifted.
Not vanished—shifted.
Where earlier in the week there'd been giggles and "aren't-they-cute" glances, now there was something quieter. Thicker. Like people weren't just speculating about Jay and Emma anymore.
They were expecting.
Jay felt it in the stares when he walked through the courtyard. The silence that followed when he passed a group of second-years near the vending machines. The way some people smiled at him now—knowing smiles, the kind that said, Oh, we see it now. We know.
And maybe that wasn't the worst thing.
Except for the way it changed the people closest to him.
The Crack in Routine
Amaya didn't sit by the window that morning.
She didn't say good morning to Jay either—not even a nod or a half-smile.
She was at the back with Luna, helping organize supplies for the Home Economics booth they'd volunteered for during next week's open house.
Jay saw her tie a ribbon around a folded napkin with such quiet focus it felt like a wall had gone up around her.
He didn't approach.
Not yet.
Because something about her silence felt… personal.
More than just shyness.
More than her usual soft withdrawal.
It felt like grief.
The kind you wrap in domestic things so no one asks what's wrong.
Cold Steel Beneath Lip Gloss
It was near the end of lunch when Sofia finally spoke.
Jay had just returned from the rooftop, where he'd stood alone for twenty minutes doing absolutely nothing productive.
He sat at his desk, unwrapping a rice ball, when she walked over and placed her hands on the edge of his desk.
"Got a second?" she asked, voice sugar-coated.
Jay blinked. "Sure."
She leaned down just enough that her hair grazed his arm. "Alone."
He glanced at the rest of the class. Emma was near the board, reading announcements. Tyler was at the vending machine failing to get his chips unstuck.
"Okay," Jay said, rising slowly.
They walked out together, past the lockers, down the side hall where sunlight slanted through high windows and dust floated like something sacred.
Sofia stopped.
Didn't face him.
Just spoke.
"I've known you since what, September?" she began. "Seven months."
Jay said nothing.
"And in that time," she continued, "I've seen you charm half the school, dodge every real conversation, make girls fall for you without even trying... and somehow make it look like an accident."
Jay's brows pulled together. "Sofia, what is this about?"
She turned to face him.
Really turned.
Eyes sharp, not teasing.
"You like her?"
Jay blinked. "Who?"
Emma.
She didn't say the name.
She didn't have to.
Jay exhaled. "It's complicated."
Sofia smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "Of course it is."
He frowned. "Why does it matter to you?"
Sofia took a step closer.
"You think I flirt because I don't feel things?" she asked softly. "You think I tease you because it's fun?"
Jay didn't answer.
Sofia laughed—low and bitter. "You were supposed to be the one guy who didn't treat me like a joke."
Jay swallowed. "I never did."
"Then why does it feel like I was a placeholder?" she whispered. "A warm-up act?"
He didn't know what to say.
Sofia looked away. "You know what hurts most?"
"What?"
"You didn't even notice when I stopped flirting."
Jay's heart sank.
She turned to leave.
Paused.
Looked back over her shoulder.
"Maybe she's the right choice for you. She's everything I'm not."
Then she was gone.
Threads of Sweetness
Later that day, Jay slipped quietly into the Home Economics room.
He knew she'd be here.
Amaya stood near the far counter, folding cloth napkins into delicate swans.
She didn't look up.
Jay waited a beat.
Then stepped forward. "They're perfect."
Amaya still didn't look at him. "They're just for decoration."
"They look better than half the café menus I've seen."
That earned a small breath. Not a laugh. But close.
Jay stood beside her, watching her hands work. So careful. So soft.
"I missed this," he said quietly.
Amaya's hands stilled.
"This," he said again. "You. Just... being here."
She finally looked up at him.
Eyes wide.
Tired.
"So why does it feel like I'm invisible now?" she asked.
Jay blinked.
Amaya folded another napkin—sharper this time.
"I know I'm not loud. I know I'm not dramatic or flirty or smart like everyone else. But I was here, Jay. I was always here."
"You still are," he said quickly.
"Then why don't I feel it?" she whispered.
Jay stepped forward, but she didn't back away.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know," she cut in gently. "You never mean to."
That stung more than anything else.
She set down the napkin.
"I'm not mad," she added. "I'm just... tired of watching from behind the glass."
Jay swallowed. "I didn't ask you to."
"I know," she said again. "But I did it anyway."
Then she smiled.
Small.
Painful.
Brave.
"You're allowed to be happy, Jay. Even if it's not with me."
And she walked past him.
Alone, Again
Jay sat on the rooftop again that evening.
This time, he didn't look at the sky.
He just sat on the bench, head bowed, hands tangled in each other.
Two conversations.
Two girls.
Two broken things.
And him, at the center, still pretending he wasn't pulling the strings.
But now... the guilt wasn't abstract.
Now it had names.
Faces.
Fingers that used to reach for him.
Eyes that now looked past.
And he didn't know how to fix any of it.