The train ride didn't feel like movement anymore.
It felt like being carried away from something Miles hadn't fully finished grieving yet. The world outside the window blurred into long, streaking lights and dark shapes of trees that looked like they were trying to keep up with him, failing with every passing second. His reflection in the glass looked older than he remembered.
Tired eyes. Tight jaw. A face that had stopped asking permission to feel things.
He didn't sleep.
By the time the train slowed into the station, the sky had shifted into that pale, washed-out gray that meant morning had already happened without asking anyone's permission.
Woodsburg.
Even the name sounded different now. He stepped off the train slowly, bag slung over one shoulder, Chelsea's coat still wrapped around him like something he didn't know how to return anymore.
He didn't have a plan.
Just movement.
—
Chelsea's apartment was smaller than he expected.
Not in a bad way—just… real. Lived-in. The kind of place that didn't pretend to be anything other than what it was. A few plants near the window. A stack of books that leaned slightly like they'd been reread more than once. A mug in the sink that looked like it had been there for a while.
Miles stood outside the door for longer than he meant to.
His hand hovered.
Then knocked.
Once.
Then again, softer.
Footsteps.
A pause.
The door opened.
Chelsea stood there in a loose sweater, hair slightly messy like she hadn't decided what version of herself to be yet today. For a moment, she just looked at him.
Her eyes widen slightly, but her initial shock subsides. Now, only recognition.
"…You actually came," she said quietly.
Miles gave a small, broken exhale that might've been a laugh if it had more air in it.
"Yeah," he said. "I didn't really know where else to go."
That made something flicker across her face. Not pity. Not relief.
Something more complicated.
She stepped aside without saying anything. Until..
"You'll catch cold."
Not quite a warm welcome, but one nonetheless.
Miles walked inside.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And the sound felt final in a way neither of them acknowledged.
—
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Chelsea moved to the kitchen, poured water into two glasses, and set one down near him without asking. Miles sat on the edge of the couch like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to take up space.
He finally broke the silence.
"…I shouldn't have come like this."
Chelsea leaned against the counter, arms folded loosely.
"No," she said. "You probably shouldn't have."
Miles nodded once, accepting it immediately. That made her pause.
He looked down at his hands.
"I keep thinking about everything I did," he said. "And I can't tell what part was me trying to help people… and what part was me just… dragging everyone with me when I fell."
Chelsea watched him carefully.
"You're not the only one who made choices," she said.
Miles shook his head slightly.
"But I kept pushing. Even when things were already breaking."
Silence again.
Then Chelsea spoke, quieter this time.
"You think I didn't know what this was becoming?"
Miles looked up at her.
That question landed differently than the others.
Chelsea's gaze didn't waver.
"I let you in," she said. "I let you get close. I could've stopped it earlier."
Miles opened his mouth, but nothing came out immediately.
She continued.
"And I didn't."
A beat.
Then, softer—
"…because I didn't want to."
That changed the air in the room.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to make it harder to breathe normally.
Miles stared at her like he was trying to understand if she meant it in the same way he heard it.
Chelsea pushed off the counter slowly.
"I'm not saying what you did was fine," she added. "You're seventeen. I know that. I know what that means."
Miles nodded again, quieter now.
"I know."
"But," she said, stepping closer, "you're also not some stranger I got manipulated by."
That made him look up fully.
Chelsea exhaled through her nose, like she was annoyed at herself for continuing.
"You're Miles," she said. "And you've always been… like this. You don't know how to stop when you care about something."
A small, bitter smile flickered across Miles' face.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Turns out that's a problem."
Chelsea didn't smile back.
Instead, she looked at him for a long moment.
Then she said something more honest than either of them seemed ready for.
"…I missed you when we were apart."
Miles went still.
Not because he didn't believe her.
Because he did.
And that made everything heavier.
"I tried to tell myself it was better that way," Chelsea continued, voice softer now. "That distance would fix things. That it would make sense eventually."
She shook her head slightly.
"But it didn't."
Miles' throat tightened.
He looked away, like if he kept looking at her too long, something inside him would tip over completely.
"I'm not good for you," she said.
Miles answered immediately.
"That's not your decision to make."
Miles looked away, almost regretting how he said it.
Not because it solved anything.
Because it didn't.
—
Later, the light outside shifted without either of them noticing.
Chelsea sat on the arm of the couch now, not far from him. Not close enough to assume anything. But not distant either.
Miles had taken his coat off at some point. It sat folded beside him like a version of himself he wasn't ready to carry anymore.
He spoke again, quieter.
"…When I left home," he said, "I thought I was finally doing something right. Like I was choosing my own life instead of letting everyone else decide it for me."
Chelsea listened without interrupting.
"But I didn't really choose anything," he continued. "I just ran until I ended up somewhere else. But I just can't go back."
Chelsea's voice was calm.
"You're here now."
Miles gave a small shake of his head.
"That doesn't feel like enough."
A pause.
Then Chelsea said, almost reluctantly—
"It never does."
That made him look at her again.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Something between them felt suspended. Not resolved. Not defined.
Just real.
Miles finally spoke, barely above a whisper.
"…Do you hate me?"
Chelsea blinked once.
Then shook her head.
"No."
That was it.
No hesitation.
No performance.
Just no.
Miles' breath caught slightly, like that answer didn't fit inside what he expected the world to say to him anymore.
Chelsea looked down at her hands.
"You can't force me to admit it, dude. You know what I..", she corrects herself "What.. we feel for each other.. is far from hate."
Silence stretched again.
This one didn't feel like avoidance.
It felt like honesty sitting between them, unfinished but unafraid.
Miles leaned back slightly into the couch.
For the first time in a long while, his shoulders lowered—not because things were fixed, but because he wasn't holding himself together quite as tightly.
Chelsea stood up slowly.
"I'm not telling you to leave," she said.
Miles looked up at her.
She met his eyes.
"But I'm not letting you pretend none of this matters either."
A beat.
Then softer—
"You can stay," she said. "Just… promise me that things won't end up...". She gestures slightly "Like what happened at the lighthouse.. Deal?"
Miles nodded.
Not immediately.
But fully.
"…Okay," he said.
Chelsea turned toward the kitchen again, like she needed something normal to do with her hands.
Miles stayed where he was.
Not healed.
Not okay.
But not alone either.
And for now, that was the only thing either of them knew how to trust.