Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer
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Where the Lines Overlap
All We Know
~~ Mark ~~
(Spiraling out of control) How do these things all unfold?
The clock on the wall ticks softly, each second pulling me further from sleep. My eyes trace the faint cracks in the ceiling, a map I've memorized during sleepless nights like this. The room feels too still. Too small. Like it's closing in. The silence presses down on me like a heavy hand, amplifying the weight of everything I'm trying not to think about.
Jasper should have called by now.
I turn over, staring at the faint glow of my phone on the nightstand. It's past three, which means Jasper should have landed in Denver hours ago. My mind reaches for excuses, stacking them neatly like building blocks. Maybe he forgot, caught up in the rush of connecting flights. Maybe his phone died. Maybe he'll call once he lands in Seattle.
That's what makes sense. Jasper would go straight to the hospital—his dad just came out of a coma. It'd be selfish to expect anything else.
But the blocks topple, one by one, each excuse heavier than the last. I grip the edge of the mattress and sit up, running a hand through my hair. My chest tightens as a thought slips through—a quiet whisper of doubt I can't shake.
He wouldn't just forget.
I stand and cross to the window, pulling the curtain back. The first light of dawn bleeds into the horizon, painting the sky in muted pinks and grays. I tell myself to focus on the steady rhythm of my breathing, but it doesn't help. The room feels too small, too still. I need to move.
Slipping on my running shoes, I step outside. The cool morning air brushes against my skin, grounding me. I start down the path, my steps slow at first but gradually picking up. Each beat of my foot against the pavement echoes with memories of running beside him—the easy rhythm we fell into without trying, the quiet moments when words felt unnecessary.
It was our routine, something that anchored us. But the last few weeks, we haven't gone. Life has gotten in the way, and now that absence feels sharper, a dull ache I can't ignore.
As the run stretches on, my legs move automatically, but my mind refuses to quiet. By the time I make it back to the apartment, my breath is steady, but the knot in my chest hasn't loosened. I grab my phone from the counter, the screen lighting up to show—nothing. No calls, no texts.
My messages are marked as read. He saw them. He didn't answer.
The realization hits like a cold wind, stealing the air from my lungs. My thumb hovers over the screen, rereading what I sent, dissecting every word.
Were they too much? Too intense? Did I push him away?
I lean against the counter, the phone warm in my hand, but it doesn't feel like mine anymore. The silence between us feels heavier now, pressing against the edges of my thoughts. For the first time in years, I feel afraid—not of what he might say, but of what he won't.
.
.
.
The porch is quiet, the kind of silence that settles in after you've said everything you can and are waiting for it to make sense. My grandma leans against the railing, her iced tea balanced on the edge, fingers lightly gripping the glass. Her gaze is fixed on the horizon, where the sun hasn't yet decided whether to soften or burn. She's been listening, really listening, the way she always does—without interrupting, without judgment, just waiting for the moment when I need her to speak.
I shift in my seat, the wooden planks creaking beneath me, my thoughts heavier than the humid afternoon air. She hasn't said much since I laid it all out for her, but that's just who she is—giving me space to vent.
"I know he's going through a lot," I finally say, breaking the silence. My voice feels too loud in the stillness. "It's not like he owes me anything."
She hums softly, noncommittal, letting the words hang between us.
"He's with his family," I add, as if saying it out loud will make it easier to accept. "I'm probably the last thing on his mind right now, and that's fine. It should be fine."
Granny walks toward the table and sets her glass down, the soft clink of it against the wood drawing my attention.
"It might be fine," she says, her voice calm and measured, "but it still hurts, doesn't it?"
I don't answer. My fingers tighten around the glass in my hand, feeling its coolness against my skin, but it doesn't calm the heat building in my chest.
She looks at me attentively, her blue eyes steady, piercing through the silence. She's waiting for me to admit it, to say the thing I'm trying not to.
"You should call him."
I shake my head before the words even fully register, the thought of it feeling too much, too soon.
"I don't want to bother him. He's probably busy, focused on his dad, on everything else—"
"That's why he probably needs you," she interrupts gently. Her voice has the same quiet force it always does, like she's not just speaking, but offering something. "Sometimes, when life gets heavy, you don't need someone to fix it. You just need someone to remind you they're there."
I stare into my tea, watching the ice swirl lazily as I tilt the glass. The swirling movement mocks the stillness in my chest.
"What if he doesn't answer?" I murmur, my throat tight as if just saying it makes the fear feel too real.
Her smile is soft but sure, the kind of smile that makes you feel like she knows something you don't.
"Then he doesn't answer. No harm done. But if he does, maybe it's exactly what he needs right now."
She sighs as she steps toward the door.
"I'll leave you to think about it," she says, disappearing inside without waiting for a response. It's her way of nudging me, giving me space while pushing me just enough.
I lean back in my chair, letting out a long breath. My thumb brushes the edge of my phone, and I hesitate, the familiar wave of doubt crawling up my spine, settling in my gut. But her words linger—sometimes you just need someone to remind you they're there.
Before I can second-guess myself any further, I open my contacts and press Jasper's name.
As the phone rings, each tone stretching longer than the last, I stand and walk distractedly to the railing, leaning on it. My stomach tightens, anticipation curling into something sharper with each passing second. The phone rings longer than it should, dragging out my hesitation. I almost end the call, but then his voice cuts through the silence.
"Edward," he says, the name coming out like a question.
I freeze, my breath catching. A thousand thoughts flood my mind, none of them helpful. The pause stretches between us, suffocating in its weight.
My chest tightens, the ache of his distance settling in my bones.
He wasn't expecting me, he wasn't thinking of me. He was hoping to hear from his boyfriend, which makes total sense.
I hear a faint shuffle, then his voice cuts through the silence.
"I'm sorry, Mark, I—"
"It's okay," I interrupt quickly, my voice steady even though it hurts. I try to push down the ache clawing at my chest. "I just wanted to check if you got there okay. I'm sorry to bother you."
I hate how small my words sound. They don't fit the intensity of what I'm feeling.
"No, you're not—" he starts, but then stops abruptly. The way his voice falters twists something inside me. "Everything's fine. I'm fine." His tone is firm, but it feels forced.
"Good," I say softly, my uncertainty bleeding through despite my best effort to mask it. "I'll let you go. I know you're busy."
"Wait—" he says, his voice carrying something raw, something I know too well—guilt. "I… I'm sorry. I didn't check who was calling before I answered."
"It's okay," I reply, quieter now, hoping he can't hear the edge of sadness. "I get it."
Maybe he gets a glimpse of my sadness, but he doesn't understand how hard this is on me. And he's not supposed to—it's not his responsibility.
"It's not okay," he murmurs, the guilt thick in his words. "I know I'm hurting you, and I hate it."
I close my eyes, leaning heavier against the porch railing, willing myself to take the high road. He's with his family. He has more important things to worry about than my hurt feelings.
I turn toward the yard, the grass glowing faintly in the late afternoon light, searching for the right words to offer him but failing miserably.
"Mark," he murmurs my name, barely audible. "Please… say something."
The words form before I even realize I'm about to say them.
"What do you want me to say, Jay?"
The pause on the other end feels endless, stretching the silence between us until it's unbearable. My grip tightens around the phone, tension bracing my hand.
I sigh, understanding what he probably feels. This isn't his fault—not even a little. I try to reassure him.
"Don't feel bad for me," I say finally, my voice soft but firm. "I'm the one expecting too much when I know I should expect nothing."
My impulsive confession sits between us, thick and unfiltered, as heavy as the ache in my chest.
His reaction comes fast, almost desperate.
"No, no, Mark. I'm the one who's being selfish. I—"
"Jasper." I cut him off gently, my tone calm but unwavering. "Stop taking it all on yourself, please." I draw a deep breath, grounding myself in the steadiness I promised to be for him. "I told you I'd be here, no matter what. I'm a man of my word. And it's my choice, one I'm making consciously."
I don't tell him how hard that choice is, how much it twists inside me. That's not what he needs to hear. Instead, I force myself to end this painful conversation before it unravels us both.
"You should go," I add after a moment, the words heavier than I want them to be. "I shouldn't keep you."
I linger, waiting for him to say something—anything—that might extend this moment. A word to let me know he needs me, wants me to stay. But the silence drags on, stretching thin and fragile, and I realize I'm hoping for more than he can give.
I exhale sharply, the sound breaking the stillness.
"Bye, Jay," I whisper, the words barely carrying the weight of my voice.
Before I can end the call, I hear it—his breath hitching, raw and shaken. My heart clenches, and I freeze, waiting, wondering if he'll say something.
Finally, his voice breaks through, trembling and low.
"I wish I could too."
The words hit me like a punch to the chest, leaving me winded. My fingers grip the edge of the phone, my knuckles straining against the movement.
Is he partly quoting me? Does he mean what I think he means? Is it an answer to my text?
"Sunny?" His voice breaks through, soft and uncertain, and the nickname has the same effect as all the other times he used it—it jolts my heart. "Did you hear me?"
"Yes," I manage to say, the word barely audible.
"Did you… understand what I mean?"
That you wish you could love me too?
That has to be what he means—it's the only explanation that makes sense. Or at least, it's what I want to believe.
"Yes," I reply again, quieter this time. And I do. But not fully.
He murmurs something I can't make out, words tangled in guilt and hesitation.
"I should let it go, let you go." His voice sharpens just enough for me to catch the words, and they terrify me. "I shouldn't be stringing you along like this, dragging you into this mess."
He's spiraling, and I'm right there with him. But I can't let him fall—not now. I force my voice steady, hoping he'll hear the truth in it.
"I don't want you to let me go, Jay. I'm here—I'll be here as long as you need me. As long as you want me to be."
The silence that follows feels heavier than anything he could have said. I know I've been too intense, that I've poured too much of myself into those words. I can't help it. That's what he does to me.
"I hate that I'm hurting you," he echoes one of his earlier guilty affirmations, his voice breaking subtly, sending a deep ache through my chest.
I'm hurting him too—every time I let my feelings show. He doesn't deserve that.
"I hate that you're hurting," the words slip out before I can stop them. "But if I can bring you even the smallest relief, I will. No matter the cost."
The silence stretches again, all-consuming, as if the world has paused, suspended, waiting for one of us to make a move neither of us knows how to make.
"Jazzy!" A voice calls out faintly in the background, unmistakable even through the static.
I close my eyes, fighting the desperate pull to keep him with me just a little longer.
"You should go," I say gently.
"Mark—"
"I'll be okay," I interrupt, forcing a smile into my voice even though I know he can't see it. "Go. Be with your family. Don't worry about anything else right now. Just… focus on them."
There's a pause, and I hate how much I savor his hesitation—it feels like he doesn't want to let go either. I'm tempted to stretch it out, to hold onto this moment, but I can't be selfish with him.
When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper, more felt than heard.
"Okay."
"Take care, Jay."
"You too," he replies, his voice catching on the words.
The line goes dead, and I lower the phone, staring at the fading light on the horizon. The ache doesn't fade, but I tell myself it's worth it. For him, it always will be.
.
.
.
The intercom buzzes as I'm towel-drying my hair, the sharp sound cutting through the post-shower quiet of the apartment. I pause, glancing at the clock—it's just past four in the afternoon, barely half an hour since I got back. Frowning, I drop the towel over the back of a chair and pad barefoot to the intercom.
"Yeah?" I say into the receiver.
"It's me," Kyle's voice comes through, low and slightly hesitant.
I blink, the frown deepening. I've seen him earlier at practice, and he hasn't mentioned coming over—or anything that would warrant showing up unannounced. Still, I buzz him in, curiosity mingling with the faintest edge of caution.
When I opened the door, there he is, leaning casually against the frame as if this is the most natural thing in the world. The sight of him brings a wave of familiarity that's almost disarming. Kyle, with his easy posture, the crooked grin he always seems to wear, and the kind of energy that can shift a room's atmosphere without trying, his confidence so natural it borders on charm.
"Hey," I say, stepping aside to let him in.
"Hey," he replies, striding into the room.
He shrugs off his jacket and drops it onto the couch with an ease that reminds me of how well he knows this space—how well he knows me.
I shut the door and I follow him into the living room, flopping onto the couch and settling in cross-legged, my elbows resting lazily on my knees. Kyle, on the other hand, stays perched on the edge of the same couch, his elbows on his knees, leaning slightly forward.
"What's up?" I ask, meeting his gaze.
Kyle doesn't answer right away. Instead, he rubs his palms together—a rare, unguarded gesture. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer than usual.
"I've been thinking a lot about us," he begins.
I tilt my head, already feeling where this is headed.
"Kyle, we've been through this—"
"I know." He cuts me off, his eyes locking onto mine. "I know you've told me it's over. That you're not coming back. But…" His voice dips, and he exhales heavily. "I miss you, M. I miss us."
The air seems to shift between us. I freeze, unsure how to respond to the rawness in his tone.
He presses on.
"You can't tell me you don't feel it too." He continues, his tone steady but laced with a subtle vulnerability. "The first time we were together, yeah, I was stupid, but this last time… We were good. We were better. You felt it, didn't you?"
"Ky," I try, my voice quiet, "we didn't work for a reason—"
"Don't." He cuts me off with a slight shake of his head. "Don't act like there's nothing left. I know you, Mark. I know how you feel. I can see it. I can still feel it." He leans back slightly, his gaze unwavering. "I've always loved you. Even when I was dumb enough to let you go, that never changed."
His words land with a force I haven't been prepared for. They aren't new, not entirely, but the way he says them—firm and earnest, without any of the usual teasing or bravado—makes me hesitate.
And Kyle notices.
He shifts, his movements unhurried as he closes the space between us.
"You still care about me," he says softly, the words feeling like both a plea and a promise.
His hand reaches up, fingers brushing against my neck, firm and deliberate. The gesture is bold, confident—quintessential Kyle—but his touch carries an almost imperceptible tremor. He let his palm settle there, his thumb grazing the edge of my jaw as his eyes search mine.
The touch feels so familiar it sends a shiver down my spine. Before I can react, he leans in, his movements deliberate, his fingers curling slightly against my jaw, anchoring me but also giving me the chance to pull away.
I don't.
His lips meet mine, slow and tender, coaxing rather than demanding. I let him, and for a moment, I give in to the pull of the past, the comfort of his presence, the fleeting warmth of something that has once felt so easy, that once felt like love.
But it isn't the same.
I lift my hands to cradle Kyle's face, stopping the kiss gently. My thumbs brush against the faint stubble on his jaw as I rest my forehead against his, our breaths mingling in the small space between us.
We sigh at the same time, a quiet release that seems to carry all the weight of what is unsaid.
When I pull back, I let my hands linger on his face for a moment before meeting his eyes. The intensity in them is almost too much, stirring a rush of memories—of how deeply I have once loved him, how much he has meant to me. But now, that love feels like it belongs to a different lifetime.
It isn't gone, not entirely. There are remnants, faint and familiar, but not the consuming force it has been when we were together. And as I hold his gaze, I can't stop the unbidden comparison. What I feel for Jasper dwarfs everything else. It's bigger, brighter, an all-encompassing gravity I can barely contain.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself.
"Ky…" My voice is soft, laced with the care I still feel for him. "I can't. I can't be with you."
His expression falters, a flicker of hurt crossing his features, but he doesn't pull away.
"I care about you," I continue, my tone gentle but firm. "A lot. I always will. But the truth is… I'm utterly in love with someone else."
Kyle's expression shifts, the subtle hurt giving way to sharp understanding.
"It's Hale, isn't it?" he asks, his voice tinged with a mix of resignation and something bitterly knowing.
I hesitate for only a second before nodding. There's no point in denying what's already obvious—not just to Kyle but to the rest of the guys on the team who know me well enough to notice. I'm not even trying to hide it anymore, not when the person I'm in love with already knows.
Kyle lets out a quiet scoff, shaking his head like he's trying to make sense of it.
"He has a boyfriend, Mark," he says, repeating the same thing he threw at me a couple of days ago.
As if I didn't already know that too fucking well.
"I know," I reply, keeping my voice steady even though I'm tired of hearing it. "I know he does."
Kyle leans back slightly, his gaze narrowing as he studies me.
"Then what's the point? Why…?"
"Because it doesn't matter," I cut him off, gently but firmly. "It doesn't matter that we're just friends or that I can't have him." I pause, running a hand through my hair, trying to ground myself in what I already know to be true. "It doesn't change how I feel."
Kyle's jaw tightens, his hurt evident, but there's something else there—worry.
"You're gonna get hurt, M," he says quietly, his voice low but firm. "And I don't want to be around to watch it."
I nod, not arguing because he's probably right. I can feel the truth of it settling deep in my chest, heavy and inevitable.
Kyle stands, and I follow him to the door without a word. He pauses just before stepping out, turning back to me. His eyes, unexpectedly soft, catch mine, and there's a tenderness there I haven't seen in a long time.
"Good luck," he says simply, and the sincerity in his tone makes my throat tighten.
"Thanks," I manage, even though the word feels small compared to everything I want to say but can't.
He turns, and I close the door behind him. For a moment, I just lean back against it, staring up at the ceiling, trying to steady myself. I exhale slowly, but it doesn't ease the ache in my chest.
I'm already getting hurt. Deeply. But I can't run from it… I just can't.
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I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, the edges of dawn creeping through the blinds. Sleep has been impossible, my mind circling back to Jasper over and over. He's probably still in Olympia, with his family, carrying the weight of his father's health, and I haven't heard from him since I called him two days ago. I tell myself he's busy, overwhelmed—but the worry twists in my chest all the same.
I close my eyes, trying to will myself back to sleep, or at least to stop thinking. The silence of the room presses in, heavy and unrelenting until the sharp chime of my phone breaks through it.
I lurch upright, heart pounding, and grab the phone from the nightstand.
I'm outside.
I blink, rereading the message twice to make sure I'm not imagining it.
It's from Jasper, but what does it mean he's outside? Here?
The adrenaline hits fast, jolting me upright and throwing off the tangled sheets. Instead of replying, I'm on my feet, grabbing a hoodie from the chair, and rushing for the door. I don't even wait for the elevator, I run down the stairs.
The chill of the morning air bites at my skin as I step outside the building, but I barely register it. My eyes scan the street, and then I see him. Jasper stands by the edge of the curb, his arms wrapped around himself, shoulders hunched as if shielding himself from something far worse than the cold.
"Jay," I call softly, stepping closer. His head snaps up, and the sight of his face—pale, eyes rimmed red, a rawness in his expression—sends a sharp pang through my chest. He looks shattered, like he's barely holding on, and a dozen alarms go off in my head.
I try to keep my voice steady, cautious, as I approach. "What...?"
Before I can finish, Jasper's breath hitches, and he breaks. A sob tears from him, his whole frame trembling, and I close the remaining distance in a second.
"Come on," I murmur, guiding him toward the door. He doesn't resist, letting me steer him inside, his sobs muffled as he presses a hand over his face. I keep my arm around his shoulders, anchoring him as we step into the building. My heart pounds, and my thoughts race, but I push it all aside.
Whatever this is, whatever's broken him like this, I'll help him through it. I just need to get him inside, get him to sit down, and—God—figure out what's hurting him so much.
Once in my apartment, I help him to the couch, crouching in front of him as he sinks down. His hands tremble in his lap, his face pale and drawn. My heart clenches at the sight. Whatever's happened, it's tearing him apart.
"Hey," I say softly, keeping my voice steady and low. "It's okay. You're safe. Just let it out… let it all out."
He meets my eyes for a fleeting second, and then the dam breaks. His hands fly to his face as his sobs deepen—guttural cries that seem to tear from somewhere too raw to name. The sound shatters something inside me, but I stay grounded. He needs me to.
I rest my hand lightly on his knee, offering quiet comfort without crowding him. Words feel useless right now. All I can do is be here, solid and unwavering, while he falls apart in front of me.
His cries grow harder, ragged gasps breaking through the sobs as he struggles to breathe. Without thinking, I shift closer, wrapping my arms around him. His body feels so small, so fragile in my embrace, and he buries his face in my chest like it's the only thing keeping him afloat. I hold him tightly, my hand moving in slow, steady strokes across his back.
"It's okay," I murmur, though I know it's not, not yet. The words are soft, meant to ground him, to remind him he's not alone.
His sobs don't ease, but I feel the way his body melts against mine, the tension loosening as exhaustion fights to take hold. I rock him gently, my chin resting lightly on the top of his head, letting him fall apart while I keep him steady.
When his cries finally subside, his breathing slows, turning shallow and uneven. His weight leans heavier against me, and I realize he's slipped into the dark pull of sleep, the kind of sleep you fall into when the weight of everything is too much to keep you awake. His body relaxes against me, a softness settling in that only comes with exhaustion. The way he's curled up, his face free of the tension that has held it tight, tells me he's not just sleeping. He's retreating, shutting down, trying to escape the pain if only for a little while.
I don't move. Not yet. I just hold him, my own heart breaking quietly for him, and promise myself that whatever he's facing, he won't face it alone.
Eventually, I understand he's not waking up anytime soon, and I don't want to leave him like this. So, I gently slide my arms under his body, careful not to wake him. His body is lighter than I expected, and I lift him easily, adjusting my grip as I carry him to my bed. The last thing I want to do is leave him alone right now.
Once he's settled under the covers, I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him. My heart aches for him, but I know there's nothing I can do right now except be here. The worry gnaws at me—what happened? What did he go through to make him like this?
I take a slow breath, telling myself it can wait. I can't keep hovering, so I pull myself together.
I grab my phone, dialing Coach's number. I tell him I can't make it to practice today—something important came up and I have to take care of it.
I hang up and text Aaron and Brandon, letting them know I won't be in class today and asking them to take notes for me. Then I sit at the kitchen counter, flipping through my notes and trying to focus. For a couple of hours, I manage, though every few minutes my gaze drifts back to the bedroom. I keep pushing myself, determined to study and stay occupied.
I call Granny, explain what happened, and listen to her gentle advice to be patient, offering Jasper whatever support he needs—no matter what that turns out to be.
I try reading, watching TV, and having lunch, but the noise of my own thoughts lurches, making it impossible to focus. They're all about Jasper.
By the beginning of the afternoon, I give up pretending. I move back into the bedroom and sit down on the floor beside the bed. I lean against the frame, folding my arms over the mattress and resting my chin on them, letting my eyes fall to Jasper, still asleep. It's like nothing exists outside this room. I can't stop thinking about what happened, what's happening, but I stay quiet. He needs rest.
Before I know it, my eyelids grow heavy, and I slip into the same sleep I fought earlier. Sitting there, close enough to feel his presence, I drift off.
.
.
.
The drive is quiet, except for the faint rustling of my jersey against the leather as Jasper shifts in the seat, its fabric hanging loosely on him. My mind drifts back to last night.
I'd woken up in the middle of the night to find him already awake, his eyes on me. There was something in his gaze—gratitude and tenderness—that made my chest tighten.
It tightened even more when he told me what Edward had done. The image of Jasper catching Edward in bed with Luke was unbearable. I couldn't believe Edward had cheated on him. The thought of someone treating Jasper like that made my stomach churn. After he went to shower, I couldn't hold it in anymore. I sat on the couch, trying to process it all, and ended up shedding a few tears. Because if Jasper were mine, I would never hurt him like that. Never.
I blink, pulling myself back to the present as I turn onto Jasper's street. I can still feel his kiss from last night, the soft press of his lips on my cheek, the way it sent my heart racing when he whispered 'Thank you' before heading to bed.
I park in front of his apartment, my hand lingering on the gear shift. That's when Jasper's voice cuts through the silence, low and desperate, almost as if he's talking to himself.
"Oh my God, I left my bag. It's by the door. He probably knows I'm back. He knows I saw them."
I glance over at him, his breathing quick and shallow, his hands gripping his thighs tightly—he's panicking.
"Jasper," I say in a low, steady voice, my hand moving instinctively to the nape of his neck. My thumb brushes over the bone behind his ear as I try to calm him down. His skin is warm under my touch, and I feel his muscles tense before slowly relaxing. "You're spiraling. Take a deep breath."
He looks at me, his eyes wide and glassy. For a second, I think he might break down, but instead, he nods and follows as I take a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slower as he tries to steady himself.
I rest my hand on his shoulder once I see he's more in control.
"I have some classes, and then I'll head to the gym," I tell him in a gentle voice. "But you can call me anytime if you need anything, okay? Just call."
He nods, his green eyes still wide with anxiety. I know he's nervous, but I can't go with him. I hold my breath involuntarily as he opens the car door.
"Thanks," he says softly as he leaves.
I watch him hesitantly get into his building before starting the car. I drive away after he disappears inside, but I leave my heart with him.
.
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I leave my third class of the day, the rush of students streaming past me, their chatter a blur as I try to shake the unease swirling in my chest.
Jasper's with Edward. They're probably working through what happened, maybe already finding a way to fix what's broken between them. He'll call if he needs me. But he probably won't.
I try to focus on what I have to do, but my thoughts keep circling back. I've been thinking about it nonstop since I left Jasper at his place.
Brandon falls into step beside me, talking a mile a minute about what I missed yesterday. I nod and hum in the right places, but I'm barely listening. My mind is still on Jasper.
Then my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out quickly, expecting to see Jasper's name. But it's not.
My screen shows Golden Boy.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. I don't know why I'm surprised, but I am.
Taking a deep breath, I force myself to push down the surge of grievance rising in my chest and answer.
"Golden Boy." The nickname slips out before I can stop it, sharper than I mean it to be.
Edward's voice comes through rough and raw, like he's been up all night—or maybe fighting something internal.
"Mark," he says, tight and clipped, like he's holding something back. "Can you talk?"
I glance at Brandon, who's still rambling about class, oblivious to the sudden shift in my focus. I signal that I need to take the call and step away, heading for the quieter patio.
Edward doesn't waste time.
"I take it you already know what happened…?"
I swallow, my voice dry when I respond.
"Yeah." My mind flashes to Jasper—his face, his voice when he told me what happened. "I know."
There's a pause, the kind that stretches just long enough to feel uncomfortable. Then Edward speaks again, his words catching me off guard.
"I broke up with him. And he left… shaken. I'm worried about him."
The sheer oddness of it leaves me reeling. He cheated on Jasper, broke his heart—and now he's worried? It doesn't make sense, but the way he says it… there's something off.
Edward exhales sharply, almost like he knows what I'm thinking.
"I need you to do me a favor," he says, and I can hear something desperate just beneath his words.
"Really? A favor?" My tone is clipped, but I force it to stay controlled.
His breath hitches, like he's bracing himself.
"Not for me," he says, his voice dropping to something almost fragile. "For Jasper."
There's something in the way he says it—something heavy, almost too heavy. It doesn't fit with what he's done, but it makes me pause.
"I think he's at Waterplace Park," Edward continues. "Could you go to him? He... probably needs his best friend right now."
His words hang in the air, heavy with a meaning I can't quite untangle.
Best friend.
That's how he sees me… and that's what I am to Jasper—that's all I'll ever be. The realization hits me hard, harsher than expected, but I push it aside. This isn't about me.
"I'll find him," I say, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me.
Jasper needs me, and that's all that matters right now.
I end the call before Edward can say anything else, the strangeness of it all settling in my chest. There's something wrong with him, but I don't have time to figure it out. Right now, my only concern is Jasper.
.
.
.
When I step into the apartment, I stop short. Jasper is sitting cross-legged at the coffee table, books and papers scattered around him. He's twirling a pencil between his fingers, his brows furrowed in concentration. The morning sunlight streams through the curtains, catching on his shiny hair and casting a soft glow over him.
My chest tightens, warmth spreading through me before I can stop it. It's an unfamiliar sensation, one I can't fully name, but it lingers. And then Jasper looks up, his face breaking into a kind smile.
"Good morning," I say, keeping my tone even as I step inside and set the bags and box I'm carrying on the floor.
"Morning," he replies, closing his notebook and stretching out his legs.
"Brought your stuff," I say lightly, kneeling to adjust the bags so they don't tip over.
I sense Jasper moving closer, and when I straighten up, he's standing right in front of me.
It's only been a few days since the breakup, but the ease between us feels different—a little more natural, maybe softer, or just more settled. Not that it was ever forced, but there's something in the way we move around each other, in the way he moves around me now.
"Thank you," he says softly, his voice carrying more than just gratitude. He hesitates, biting his lip. "How... how did it go?"
I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck.
"Smooth," I tell him, keeping my voice neutral. "Everything was ready when I got there."
Jasper doesn't say anything, but the question is there in his eyes. He wants to ask about Edward, but he's holding himself back. I don't blame him.
I think back to how Edward looked—tired, distant, broken in a way I didn't expect. He asked me to tell Jasper he was fine, but the truth felt far from it. Still, I decide not to mention any of it. Jasper doesn't need to carry that right now, and I don't want to lie to him either.
Instead, I focus on him.
"He told me it's only the essentials, just what you might need for now," I say, motioning to the bags. "If there's anything else, let me know. I can go back whenever."
Jasper nods with a soft smile, sighs, and then glances at the kitchen before looking back at me. His smile falters for a heartbeat, and his fingers twitch before he cracks his knuckles softly, the sound sharp in the quiet. But just as quickly, he straightens, the softness returning to his expression.
"I made tuna sandwiches for breakfast. Figured I'd wait for you so we could eat together."
I can't help but smile back, the corners of my mouth lifting naturally.
"Thanks," I say, stepping aside to close the door before following him into the kitchen.
We sit across from each other, comfort settling easily between us as we dig into the food. It's not until we're halfway through our sandwiches that I break the silence.
"I found an apartment," I say, keeping my tone light. "Just around the block."
Jasper's head shoots up, his eyes widening in surprise.
"Really?" His lips curve into his trade genuine smile, the kind that lights up his entire face.
And just like that, I'm caught. My gaze lingers longer than I mean to, unable to help myself.
"What?" he asks, his voice quieter now, a hint of shyness creeping in.
I shake my head, dropping my gaze to my plate.
"Nothing," I say quickly, not wanting the intensity I feel to seep through.
But Jasper's not letting it go.
"Tell me," he presses, his voice gentle but insistent.
I take a deep breath, my chest tightening as I force myself to look at him again.
"Your smile," I admit. "It's beautiful. It always makes me feel lighter."
Jasper's cheeks flush a soft pink, and he ducks his head for a moment before looking back at me.
"What is it about my smile?" he asks, his voice tinged with curiosity.
"The dimples," I say without hesitation. "The way you try to hide your teeth but can't because, well, you're a little toothy." I chuckle softly, and he joins in, his laughter warm and infectious.
He tilts his head slightly, a small smile still playing on his lips.
"You've got a way of smiling, too," he says, his tone sincere. "Like it's impossible to keep it to yourself."
The laughter between us tapers off, replaced by a quiet that feels heavier, charged with something unspoken. I can feel it, and I know he can too.
"Jay," I murmur, his name slipping out like a question.
Inside, I wrestle with myself. I want to ask him—can I love you? Will you let me? But I know now isn't the time. He'd think I'm taking advantage of his vulnerability, and that's the last thing I want.
So instead, I clear my throat and glance down at my plate, fidgeting with the edge of the napkin.
"The sandwich," I say, forcing a smile. "It's really good."
Jasper narrows his eyes slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching like he's caught me in a half-truth, but he doesn't press. And for that, I silently thank the universe.
.
.
.
I lie on the couch, the sound of my own breathing filling the quiet of the apartment. The room is dark, save for the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains. I'm mulling over how Jasper's been slowly shaking off the heaviness that came with the breakup. It's strange, seeing him smile more, his laughter returning, like a shadow finally lifting. But even with the progress, I know there's still a weight he's carrying.
Well, it's just been a few days.
I turn onto my side, my thoughts tangled, and then I hear it—my bedroom door creaking open.
It's too late for anyone to be up. I squint into the darkness, listening to the soft shuffle of feet across the floor, the fridge door opening and closing. I breathe out slowly, assuming Jasper's thirsty. It's just the kind of thing he'd do when he couldn't sleep.
But then I feel it—his approach. I freeze, my pulse quickening. I close my eyes, my body stiffening as if pretending to sleep will hide me from whatever this is. My mind, though, is wide awake. I hear the sound of his footsteps slowing, the soft rustle of his clothes, and then… silence.
I feel him near me. Maybe sitting on the coffee table right in front of me. His presence seems to fill the space. I don't open my eyes, but I can't shake the feeling that he's looking at me.
"Sunny," he whispers, the word like a breath, as if testing the waters to see if I'm awake.
My heart stumbles in my chest. I don't move, don't make a sound, though every part of me is screaming to respond. But I can't—not yet.
"I wish things were different," he murmurs softly, his voice edged with vulnerability. "I wish I wasn't still hurting for Edward. But I can't help it. I'm sorry… I see how much you care, Mark. And I wish I could show you... how I feel. How I really feel."
He pauses, like the words are too heavy, and then continues, softer now.
"I've been fighting it. Fighting the way I feel about you. 'Cause I don't want you to feel like a rebound. If we ever get the chance, I want it to be real. A hundred percent real. Just about us. No strings attached to anything else."
I hear him sigh, and then, a soft press of his lips to the corner of my mouth—barely a touch, but enough to leave my chest aching.
Before I can process it, he's gone, his footsteps fading back toward my room, leaving me in the dark silence again.
My heart pounds in my ribs, a steady drumbeat that echoes in my ears. I open my eyes, my hand instinctively brushing the spot where his lips just were.
The place where he kissed me... It feels like it's still burning. And now, the question isn't just about what I feel for him—it's about what this moment means.
But for now, I let the question linger, unanswered, in the dark.