It's Friday. The week was over before Brian could catch his breath.
Alex still hadn't said a word to him. Not after the project, not after the library, not after everything in the hallway. It was like none of it had ever happened.
Brian told himself that was fine. That this was better. That he should never have let his guard down in the first place. But the silence stayed with him. Every time Alex sat down behind him, every scrape of a chair, every shift of movement—it reminded him.He leaned over the sink and splashed cold water on his face. It stung, but at least it woke him up. His reflection looked worse than ever: tired eyes, hair sticking up, a face he barely recognized. He rubbed at his skin, trying to wash away the week, trying to push Alex out of his head.
The door opened.
Brian tensed. He didn't even need to turn. He already knew.
Alex closed the door and leaned against it, as if keeping anyone else from coming in. His eyes were steady, searching Brian's face.
"Brian, I—" Alex started.
"Don't bother," Brian said quickly. His voice was flat, but his hands shook at his sides.He grabbed his bag and headed for the door. Alex didn't move.
"We need to talk," Alex said.
Brian swallowed hard, forcing himself to look straight ahead. "Don't act like we're friends. We had a project. We finished it. Then you helped me with Tyler. Thanks for that. But it ends there."
He thought his voice might crack, but it didn't. Somehow, it held.For a second, Alex just stared at him, as if the words landed harder than they were supposed to. His face shifted—confused, maybe hurt. Brian couldn't tell. He didn't want to.
"Move," Brian whispered.
Alex stepped aside slowly.
Brian pushed past him, heart racing, heat rising to his face. He didn't look back.
Inside the bathroom, Alex stayed where he was. His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists.
And Brian walked down the hall, telling himself it was better this way.
Saturday was quiet.
Brian woke up late, staring at the ceiling for a long time before dragging himself out of bed. His mother was already gone for her Saturday errands, and the house felt emptier.
He made himself cereal and sat at the kitchen table, eating in silence. His phone sat beside the bowl. He checked it too often, though he didn't know what he expected to find. Alex didn't have his number. Alex had no reason to text him.
Still, hope lingered like a bruise that wouldn't fade.He spent most of the day pretending to work on assignments. The French Revolution notes stared back at him, Alex's messy scrawl in the margins. Brian shoved the paper into his binder and tried not to think about it.
By evening, he was stretched across his bed with a book open on his chest, but he wasn't reading. His thoughts circled the same place: the bathroom, the look on Alex's face, the way his voice had sounded when he said, We need to talk.
Brian squeezed his eyes shut. No. Better to stay invisible. Better not to let himself believe any of it had meant something.
But even in the quiet, even in the safety of his room, Alex was still there—just behind him, like always.
Sunday came. The evening pressed down heavy.
Brian sat at his desk, pencil in hand, finishing his history notes. The lamp lit the page in a small circle, but his mind kept drifting. He traced the same sentence over and over until the words blurred.
He shoved his headphones in, music low enough that he could still hear the creak of the old house. It was safer that way.
The footsteps came slow, uneven and his stomach tightened. The door slammed open without a knock.
His father, Mr. Halstead, stood there, shoulders slumped, eyes glassy. The sharp smell of alcohol filled the room before he even stepped inside.
"You hiding in here again?" he muttered, voice rough.
Brian pulled out his headphones quickly. "I was just—studying."
"Studying." His father staggered a little closer, sneering. "That's all you ever do. Books, books, books. Think that's gonna make you a man?"
Brian kept his eyes down, pencil pressed tight between his fingers.
"Look at me when I'm talking."
Slowly, Brian lifted his head. His father's glare burned down at him.
"You're weak," Mr. Halstead spat. "Your mother lets you sit up here all day, makes excuses for you. Useless." His lip curled. "You think anyone out there gives a damn what you write in those little notebooks?"
Brian's throat closed. He wanted to answer, but the words stuck.
The desk rattled as his father slammed his hand against it. A book tumbled to the floor with a dull thud. "Say something!"
"I—" Brian's voice cracked, barely audible.
His father leaned in, breath reeking of beer. "Pathetic."
His hand twitched, and for a moment Brian braced himself — but instead of a hit, his father grabbed the front of his shirt, bunching the fabric in one fist, then shoved him back hard against the chair. Brian's chest ached from the sudden push.
The man let go with a grunt. "Keep your mouth shut. That's the only thing you're good at."
And then he was gone.
The door slammed, and the silence that followed pressed in heavier than his presence ever had.
Brian stayed frozen, chest rising and falling too fast. His hands trembled in his lap. Slowly, he bent to pick up the fallen book.
The notebook had flipped open on the floor. His own neat handwriting filled the page — but scrawled across the margin in messy pen was Alex's writing, quick notes from one of their library sessions.
Brian stared at it until his vision blurred. He pressed the notebook against his chest, squeezing his eyes shut.
"I wish I could disappear," he whispered into the empty room.He hated himself for it, but part of him wished Alex had been there.
With shaking hands, Brian shoved the notebook into his backpack, zipped it up, and slid it under his bed like hiding evidence. Then he climbed into bed without turning off the lamp. He lay there stiff, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
Monday was coming. And Alex would be behind him. As always.