The last couple of weeks, being around Bash, have made me feel closer to him, connected in a way I’ve never felt connected with anyone before. Even when ‘getting close’ was off limits…it still seemed to happen without our permission. But tonight reminded me why I don’t get my hopes up, don’t get close to people anymore. It hurts when you get rejected…in any small or big way. It hurt when he threw the ethical walls back up, right when I thought something was happening, something healing.
Fuck it, I don’t need to grow feelings for him.
I tell myself that like it’ll be a guardrail for my heart. Like I was stupid for thinking there was a reason I felt different around him…a good reason.
It makes me hate that he keeps doing things like…seeing me. Catching the tiny flinches and not making a show of it, and leaving space for me when I need to breathe and not be smothered with questions. It’s like he understands my tells I didn’t even have to teach him.
I don’t like that he can see through me, but doesn’t want to stay there and see the rest.
I cut across the quad, toward my dorm. The campus is a softer place at night, a place that lets you quietly sort out your thoughts without being overwhelmed by the constant chaos around.
I smell smoke before I see him.
Atlas is leaning up against the side of the humanities building with one of his friends, a cigarette cupped between his fingers, face leaning up, looking toward the sky. My heart trips over itself and then sprints towards him, old habits and knowing what an easy place to hide looks like.
He looks the same, but somehow better. A face I’ve traced the outline of too many times, probably more times than I can actually remember sober. He looks over and sees me, immediately passing the cigarette off to the guy he’s with and pushing off the wall, walking towards me.
My fight or flight kicks in.
Run, the old instinct says.
Stay, the newer part of me insists.
You can do this.
He stops a few feet away, and we just stand there, taking each other in. Two ghosts who know each other from a fucked up past.
“Hey,” he says quietly, like he’s walking up on something delicate.
“Hey.”
“Can we talk?” he asks.
I nod. No point in avoiding it.
We end up at one of the outdoor tables. The metal is cold through my jeans. For a minute, it’s just the sound of nothing but the quiet campus and…us.
“I’m…I’m sorry,” he says, breaking the silence. His voice is rougher than I remember.
I shake my head. “No, I’m sorry…for putting all of that on you…for doing the one thing you alwaystold me you were afraid of happening.”
“I hate that I ever put it in your hands to begin with. I hate being that guy. I didn’t want to be that guy to you. You know? It—” He swallows, jaw ticking with emotions. “It killed me…to see you on that stretcher that night. Knowing I had a hand in putting you there.”
I look up at him, into eyes that have always been kind to me, and see all three versions I knew at once—the friend who made me laugh over pizza and getting high at 2 a.m., the dealer who always had what I asked for and sometimes more, and the boy who looked terrified when he realized how far I’d fallen.
I pick my words carefully. “I’m sorry I used you. I took advantage of how close we got. I always knew the right things to say or do to get you to give in. You were there in some of my darkest moments, and yes, maybe you helped me escape in ways that weren’t ideal, but you also held me in a lot of those moments, too. I’m grateful for those moments. And trust me, At, if I hadn’t gotten it from you, I would’ve gotten it from someone worse. That doesn’t erase anything, but…” I shrug a shoulder. “You don’t have to hold all of that guilt. I was gonna do what I was gonna do. None of that’s on you.”
He stares at the table. “I wish things could’ve been different,” he says. “Part of me still wishes they could be…But I know that’s not…what you need. Or what I need to be.”
He drags a hand over his face and sighs. “I wasn’t safe for you,” he says finally. “I didn’t keep you safe.”
“I wasn’t safe for you either,” I echo, because that’s the truth. “I led you on. I took what I wanted and threw the rest back at you like it was your fault it didn’t fix me. I’m sorry for hurting you. For not being able to be…that. For you, for anyone.”
He shakes his head. “Youdon’t owe me that kind of apology.” He clears his throat, working away the emotions. “I’m proud of you, you know? For going away. For coming back. I’ve been telling everyone you’re the one who’s gonna do something big one day with all this fucked up shit that was handed to you. They think I’m bullshitting, but I mean it.”
Something in my chest loosens at his faith in me. “Thank you,” I say, not being able to say anything without looking stupid and crying.
He glances up, meets my eyes, and there’s that look, the one I used to ignore because it complicated things I didn’t want to name. “For what it’s worth,” he says, voice suddenly small, “I loved you. In some weird, fucked up way, I know I loved you. You made me want to be better. Youstilldo…and I’m glad I met you…even if our paths won’t be going in the same direction anymore.”
