Elijah Ward
Tuesday, 6:16pm, September 10, 2025
There was a time I thought Cat really liked me.
The way she laughed at my jokes in the hallway. The way she touched my arm when she said goodbye. The way she told me I had "that movie-star brooding thing going on."
It felt real. It felt like something.
But maybe I just wanted it to be.
Because outside of school? Outside the fluorescent lights and crowded hallways and watching eyes—she was gone.
She always had a reason not to hang out. Practice. Family. "Bad timing." We'd make plans, and she'd cancel last minute. I'd ask to call her at night, and she'd say, "Ugh, I hate the phone. Just text me."
We never went out on a real date. Not once.
And when I tried to talk—really talk—she'd dodge it. Turn the conversation into a joke. Or change the subject. Or suddenly disappear for hours.
At first, I told myself she was just shy. Or maybe scared. Or maybe not ready.
But then I saw the way she acted around other people. How she turned up the charm when eyes were on her. Especially when they were watching us.
She liked how it looked—me and her together.
Not how it felt.
And that's when it hit me: maybe I was just... an accessory.
A way to keep her at the center of the spotlight. A status symbol. Someone who made her more interesting.
It messed with me. Because I liked her. I wanted her. I thought there was something real underneath all the noise.
But real people don't disappear when the audience is gone.
So I sent the message. The one I'd been rehearsing in my head for days. The one I didn't want to write but had to.
Hey Cat. We need to talk. I don't think this is working anymore. I think we should end things.
I didn't expect her to care. Not really.
But a part of me hoped she would. That maybe, just maybe, I was wrong about her.
That maybe I'd meant more.
After I sent the text to Cat, I just sat there, staring at my phone. The three little dots never appeared. No response. Just silence.
I leaned back on my bed, letting out a breath I didn't know I was holding. My room was dark except for the soft glow of my desk lamp. Outside, the wind rustled the leaves, and for a second, everything felt hollow. Like I'd let go of something I never really had in the first place.
Then I heard the door creak open.
"Elijah?" a tiny voice said.
I looked up. It was Micah—my little brother. Eight years old, wrapped in his Spider-Man blanket, dragging a half-sleepy stuffed raccoon by the arm. His curls were messy, and he was squinting like the hallway light had betrayed him.
"Can I come in?"
I nodded. "Yeah, bud. What's up?"
He climbed into my bed without asking and curled up next to me like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Had a weird dream," he muttered.
"What kind of weird?"
"Like... I was on a boat. But the boat had wheels. And it was on fire. And there was a talking turtle trying to sell me lemonade."
I laughed. "That's not a dream, that's a blockbuster movie."
He grinned. "Can I stay here for a little?"
"Yeah. Of course."
Micah didn't say anything for a bit. He just laid there, his tiny fingers tapping against my arm.
"You seem sad," he said suddenly.
I blinked. "Yeah. I guess I am."
He looked up at me, serious in the way only little brothers can be. "Did someone hurt your feelings?"
I swallowed. "Kind of."
Micah leaned his head against my shoulder. "Wanna punch 'em?"
I smiled, finally. "No, it's okay. Thanks, though."
"You're the best brother. Even if you don't let me play your video games."
I wrapped an arm around him. "You're the best too. And when I feel sad, I'm really glad you're here."
"Me too," he mumbled, already drifting back to sleep.
And just like that, the ache in my chest softened a little.