Dan's voice is the first thing I hear when I step into the kitchen that morning.
"You haven't been answering your texts."
His tone isn't angry yet but it carries that sharp edge I've learned to recognize. I glance up from pouring cereal and find him leaning against the counter, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. His backpack slouches next to his feet like it, too, is annoyed.
"I've been busy," I mumble, grabbing the milk carton.
"Too busy to even say hi?"
"I didn't think you'd notice," I reply, trying for sarcasm but it lands flat.
Dan scoffs. "Right. Because I don't give a damn about my best friend of, what, ten years?"
I look at him then. Really look. His eyes aren't furious they're tired. Hurt. Like he's been carrying something heavy and today he finally dropped it.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I've just had... stuff." although I know saying sorry won't solve anything, but it's a start.
"You've always had stuff, Ben. And I get that. I do. But ever since he moved in..."
"Don't," I interrupt. "Don't make this about Tyler."
"But it is about him."
The air feels thick. My spoon clinks against the bowl, loud and hollow. Dan runs a hand through his hair, pacing a step back.
"I'm not stupid, Ben. I know you two are… something. And maybe that something means more to you than I ever did."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" he snaps. "When was the last time you actually told me what's going on in your head? You don't talk to me anymore. You barely look at me unless you're forced to. You're like this...this version of you that I don't even know."
"I'm trying to figure things out."
"So do it with me! That's what friends are for." I know he's hurting but no way in hell am I involving him in what's going on,it will only be adding to people who will worry and I don't want him to.
"I can't!"
My voice breaks, raw and sudden. The words echo around the kitchen.
Dan's expression freezes.
"I can't," I say again, softer. "Because if I start unraveling everything, I'm scared I'll never stop."
Silence falls between us like a dropped curtain. Dan exhales shakily and grabs his bag.
"I'll see you at school."
I nod, but he's already halfway out the door.
Later that day, Tyler leans against my locker, watching me as I gather my books. He doesn't say anything at first—just studies me like I'm some puzzle piece that suddenly doesn't fit.
"You and Dan," he finally says. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I lie.
"Right. Because storming out of your house before breakfast always screams 'okay.'"
I glance down the hallway. Dan's talking to someone from our history class, laughing a little too loud.
"I don't know," I admit. "Things are… off."
Tyler doesn't push. He just nods like he's storing the information, his hand brushing mine briefly before we go our separate ways.
In art class, the silence is deafening. Even with twenty other students sketching or mixing colors, the space around me feels isolated.
I start drawing without thinking lines, shadows, a familiar tilt of the jaw. Tyler's profile emerges on the paper, and I curse myself for letting him slip into my fingers.
The teacher says something, but I don't hear it. My head is too full of Dan's words, Tyler's glance, and the silence that keeps stretching between all of us.
After school, I sit on the front steps, waiting for the sky to shift. I don't want to go inside yet.
Tyler finds me there, two sodas in hand. He sits beside me without speaking, then offers me one.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I say.
"Same."
I drink slowly, the fizz stinging my throat. Tyler's shoulder brushes mine and doesn't move away.
"You're allowed to miss people," he says.
"I didn't say I missed Dan."
"You didn't have to."
A beat passes.
"I just… I feel like if I open up to Dan again, I'll fall apart. And if I fall apart, I'll ruin everything."
Tyler shifts to look at me. "Then let me help pick up the pieces."
I close my eyes. The words are too much and not enough.
"Okay," I whisper.
And for the first time all day, I believe it.
That night, Dan doesn't text.
And neither do I.
But Tyler stays.
And somehow, that's enough.
The next few days drift by in a blur of half finished conversations and subtle tension. Dan and I sit next to each other in class, but there's a silence between us that no amount of shared notes or awkward smiles can fix.
Tyler notices. I can tell by the way his eyes linger on us, his jaw tight whenever he sees me forcing a laugh that doesn't quite reach my eyes.
"You should talk to him," he says one evening.
"I don't know what to say."
"Start with 'I'm sorry.' The rest will come."
So I do.
I find Dan after school, near the track where he used to hang out during lunch.
"I was a jerk," I start.
He doesn't look at me. "Yeah."
"I miss you. Even when I'm around you, I miss you."
His eyes flick toward me, cautious.
"I don't know how to be all of me at once," I admit. "The part that likes Tyler. The part that's still hurting. The part that still needs you."
Dan says nothing for a while, then finally, "I'm still here. Just… waiting."
I nod. "I'll find my way back."
"You better. Because I'm tired of eating lunch with people who talk about astrology and protein shakes."
I laugh.
He laughs too.
It's not a fix.
But it's a start.
Tyler meets me outside the school gates.
"So?"
"We talked. Kind of."
He grins. "That's more than nothing."
We walk home in silence, but it's the comfortable kind. The kind that doesn't need to be filled.
Because today, the silence didn't win.
And maybe tomorrow, we'll all be a little closer to whole.