Chapter 27
Jul 18, 2025
The journal was hidden beneath my bed—pressed flat between an old hoodie and a cracked copy of Wuthering Heights. I hadn’t meant to write again. Not after the lists. Not after how badly things fell apart. But this wasn’t a list. It was messier than that. Realer.
This time, I wasn’t trying to become someone. I was trying to remember who I was before I disappeared into everyone else.
Chase was on the floor of my room, back against the side of my bed, fingers tracing invisible patterns on the wood. He hadn’t asked what I was doing when I reached for the notebook. He just watched, quiet and steady, like he knew whatever I was about to say wasn’t something I’d rehearsed.
“I wrote something,” I said. He looked up.
“A list?”
I shook my head. “A journal entry. Kind of.”
He nodded once. “Okay.”
The pages were wrinkled at the edges. Ink smudged in places I hadn’t noticed until now. My handwriting was sharper than usual—angrier. But when I read it aloud, my voice didn’t match it. It cracked. Just once.
“I’m scared,” I said. “Of becoming someone I don’t recognize. Of losing myself in boys. Of pretending I’m okay with being quiet, agreeable, good. I’m scared of repeating history. Of being too much and not enough at the same time. Of giving my whole heart to people who don’t want to keep it. I want to be brave. But I don’t know what that looks like when I’m still hurting.”
I didn’t look at him when I finished. I stared at the edge of the rug instead, where the fibers frayed like they were unraveling, too.
Chase didn’t say anything for a long time. It felt like he was listening to the echo of my words, waiting for them to settle before stepping on them.
Then he exhaled, soft and even. “You don’t have to be brave all the time.”
I looked at him then. “I don’t know how to stop trying.”
He shifted closer, knees bent, hands loosely clasped in front of him. “Then let’s make some rules.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Rules?”
His smile was small but real. “Yeah. Not the kind that cage you. The kind that keep you safe.”
“Like what?” He looked up at my ceiling like the answers might be written in the glow-in-the-dark stars I’d forgotten were still stuck there.
“Like…” he said slowly, “Rule one: we don’t lie. Not to protect each other. Not to look better. Just… no lies.”
My throat tightened. “Okay.”
“Rule two: when things get hard, we talk. Even if the words suck. Even if we say the wrong thing first.”
“Even if I hate what you say?”
“Especially then.”
A breath I didn’t realize I was holding slipped out of me. “What else?”
He tilted his head. “Rule three: no disappearing. Not for a day. Not for a week. We fight. We sulk. But we don’t vanish.”
I nodded. “No vanishing.”
“Rule four…” He hesitated. “We keep the world out. Amber. Miles. Your mom. My mom. They don’t get to rewrite us. Only we do.” Something inside me softened. Like my bones were finally remembering how to hold the shape of hope.
“I like that one,” I said.
“Rule five,” he continued, “We don’t pretend we’re not scared. We just do it anyway.”
My lips curved. “That’s a rule?”
“It is now.”
I leaned back against the wall, journal still open in my lap. The pages fluttered slightly under the breeze from the cracked window. The room was quiet in the right way. Not heavy. Not tense. Just full of air we were finally allowed to breathe.
“We might still mess it up,” I said after a while.
He turned to me, expression serious. “Yeah. We might.”
“And if we do?”
“Then we fix it.”
My fingers traced the edge of the page. “What if I get it wrong again?”
“Then we rewrite the rulebook.” I laughed under my breath. “You make it sound easy.”
“It won’t be. But we get to decide how it goes this time. Not them. Not the rumors. Not what happened before.” He looked at me like he meant every word. Like he wasn’t making a promise he couldn’t keep—just offering one I could trust.
My eyes drifted to the journal again. There were more pages. More words I hadn’t said yet. But that was okay. I didn’t need to say them all right now. I just needed to start.
Chase reached over and touched the edge of the page gently, like he didn’t want to crease it.
“Let’s build rules that don’t ruin us.” My throat caught on the quiet hope in his voice. On the way he said us like it wasn’t a risk anymore—like it was a decision.
I looked at him, eyes narrowed, voice low.
“What if I break them anyway?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Then I’ll let you.”
A beat.
“And I’ll still be here.”
He leaned in, not slow, not cautious this time. Just close.
His fingers brushed my jaw, then slid down, warm and steady, resting just under my chin like he was holding me in place. His eyes didn’t move.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
I didn’t.
He kissed me—firm, deep, like he’d been holding it back for days and finally let go. His hand slid to the back of my neck, the other gripping my waist, pulling me closer like he was done pretending he could keep distance between us.
I kissed him harder. Pulled him closer.
No more rules.
Just this. Finally, this.
