There's something unnerving about walking into school and feeling like a ghost in your own life. The halls are the same,lockers clanging, announcements buzzing, footsteps echoing but everything feels slightly off, like a mirror just barely warped.
Dan doesn't wait for me by the entrance like he used to.
He doesn't wave across the hallway or crack some dry joke about Mr. Lorne's ever wrinkling shirts. Instead, he walks ahead, talking to Micah from our English class, and doesn't glance back.
I don't blame him. Not really. I just don't know how to fix it.
Tyler falls into step beside me, hands stuffed in the pockets of his black hoodie. He glances sideways, scanning my face like it holds an answer.
"You okay?"
I nod. It's a lie, and he knows it.
"He's still mad?"
"He's not mad," I say. "He's… done."
Tyler sighs, nudging my arm. "That's not how it looked when he laughed at Micah's dumb 'Macbeth is a feminist icon' rant."
I manage a weak smile. "You were listening?"
"Hard not to. Micah sounds like a TED Talk on two Red Bulls."
We keep walking, but there's a heaviness to each step. The kind of silence that doesn't need words to feel loud.
At lunch, I sit across from Tyler at our usual spot, but my eyes keep drifting toward Dan. He's a few tables over, surrounded by people I barely know, laughing too loudly at something someone says. He looks like he belongs. Like he never needed me.
Tyler follows my gaze but doesn't say anything. He just breaks his cookie in half and tosses me the bigger piece.
"You ever think friendships have expiration dates?" I ask, barely touching the food on my tray.
"Only the fake ones."
I nod, not sure which category we belong to anymore.
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. I want to text Dan. I want to say I'm sorry again. That I miss him. That I still need him even if I don't know how to show it. But I don't type a single word.
Instead, I stare at the blinking cursor until my screen goes dark.
The next few days are a blur.
Dan and I exist in the same spaces, but we don't talk. He passes me in the hallway without a word. I hand him a worksheet in class, and he takes it without meeting my eyes. It's like we're learning how to be strangers again.
Tyler notices. Of course he does.
One afternoon, we're walking home, the sidewalk wet from a recent drizzle. Tyler kicks at a pebble and says, "You should talk to him."
"I tried."
"Try harder."
I stop walking. "You don't get it."
He turns, brows raised.
"He was there for me when things were dark. Like, really dark. I didn't have to explain myself, he just got it. And now? Now it feels like he's slipping away, and I don't know how to grab onto him without ruining everything."
Tyler steps closer, the damp air clinging to our skin.
"Then don't try to fix it all at once. Just… reach out. One word at a time."
I catch Dan by the vending machines the next day.
He doesn't look surprised to see me, but he doesn't smile either.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey."
I fidget with the strap of my backpack. "I'm sorry."
"You already said that."
"I know. But I needed to say it again."
He sighs. "What do you want from me, Ben?"
"I want my best friend back."
Dan's jaw tightens. "Then act like you mean it"
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
"I'm scared, okay?" I blurt. "I'm scared that if I let you in again, you'll see all the broken parts and realize I'm not worth it. That maybe I never was."
Dan stares at me for a long moment, then shakes his head.
"let me in and it's left for me to decide that."
He walks away before I can respond.
And it hurts more than I expected.
That night, I tell Tyler everything.
We're sitting in the attic our unofficial escape room,with a blanket thrown over our legs and an open window letting in the late September chill.
"I think I messed up too badly with Dan," I say. "I think I pushed him away without realizing it, and now it's too late."
"It's never too late," Tyler replies, eyes focused on the ceiling. "Not if you mean it."
"I do."
"Then show him."
I lean back, the wooden floor cool against my spine.
"You ever feel like no matter what you do, you're always letting someone down?"
Tyler turns to me, his voice gentler. "Yeah. All the time."
Our eyes meet.
"But it doesn't mean you stop trying," he adds.
The next morning, I write Dan a note. Not a text. Not a DM. A real note. Pen on paper.
I leave it in his locker.
It says:
≈I miss you. I'm sorry. I'm trying. I hope that's enough.'
When I pass him in the hallway that afternoon, he doesn't say anything. But there's something in his eyes that wasn't there before.
Later, he sits beside me in math class, closer than he has all week. He doesn't speak. Just leans over and draws a tiny smiley face in the corner of my notebook.
I glance at him
He shrugs. "Baby steps, right?"
I nod.
That night, Tyler and I end up in the attic again.
He leans back on his elbows, watching me with quiet curiosity.
"Dan and I are okay. I think," I say.
He smiles. "Good."
There's a pause.
"You helped," I add.
He raises an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"I'll expect a thank you card and a chocolate bar by Monday."
I laugh, and it feels easier than it has in days.
He nudges me with his knee. "You know, you're allowed to need more than one person, Ben."
"I know."
"And you don't have to break one thing to fix another."
I meet his eyes.
"I'm still learning how to hold both," I admit.
"Then let's learn together."
He doesn't reach for my hand. He doesn't need to.
He's already holding enough of me.
That weekend, Dan texts me first.
Me: Movie night still a thing?
I smile at the screen.
Dan: Yeah. You bring popcorn.
Me: Only if you promise not to cry at the sad parts.
Dan: No promises.
Tyler peeks over my shoulder and grins.
"Progress," he says.
And maybe that's what this is.
Not a full fix.
But enough to believe in one.