Chapter 3 The Weight Of Witnessing
"And I take a step forward."
The words hang in the air between us, small and defiant. Caleb doesn't move. He's frozen at the kitchen island, his face still wet, his hands still trembling. The photograph of Drew glints under the harsh kitchen lights, a ghost made of silver and memory.
I take another step. Then another.
"You should go," he says, but his voice has lost its edge. It's not a command anymore. It's a plea.
"Probably," I agree. I reach the island and lower myself onto the stool two seats away from him—not close enough to touch, but close enough that he can't pretend I'm not there. "But I'm not going to."
"Why?"
The question is so raw, so genuinely confused, that it cracks something open in my chest. Caleb Sterling, star quarterback, golden boy of Oakhaven High, genuinely doesn't understand why someone would stay.
"Because you're crying in a kitchen at three in the morning," I say. "Because you showed me the group chat. Because you told me about Drew. Because—" I hesitate, then push forward. "Because I know what it's like to feel like you're drowning and have everyone just... watch."
He's quiet for a long moment. His hand moves to the photograph, fingers tracing the edge of the silver frame.
"It's his birthday," he says finally. "Today. Well, yesterday now, I guess. November 12th. He would've been twenty-one."
I don't say anything. I've learned, over years of being the invisible girl, that sometimes the most powerful thing you can offer is silence. Space. Permission to exist without performing.
"Drew was..." He stops, searching for words. "He was everything. Loud. Funny. Fearless. He used to sneak into my room at night and tell me ghost stories until I couldn't sleep. Then he'd crawl into bed with me and let me use him as a human shield." A wet, broken laugh escapes him. "He was supposed to protect me. And then he went and got in that car."
"What was he really like?" I ask. "Not the trophies. Not the letterman jacket. The real Drew."
Caleb looks at me sharply, like no one has ever asked him that before. Maybe no one has.
"He was a terrible singer," he says slowly. "Like, genuinely awful. But he sang anyway—in the shower, in the car, in the middle of the grocery store. He didn't care who was watching. He used to say that embarrassment was a choice, and he refused to make it."
I smile. "I like him already."
"He would have liked you too." The words seem to surprise him as much as they surprise me. "He had this thing about underdogs. He used to befriend the kids everyone else ignored. Said they were more interesting than the popular ones."
"Is that why you're talking to me? Because I remind you of him?"
"No." He shakes his head. "I'm talking to you because you're the first person in two years who's looked at me like I'm not a replacement. Like I'm just... me."
The refrigerator hums. The clock ticks. Somewhere upstairs, one of the twins shifts in their sleep, a soft thump through the ceiling.
"You're allowed to be angry at him," I say.
"What?"
"Drew. Everyone probably tells you to forgive him. To remember the good times. To move on." I shrug. "But he made a choice. A stupid, selfish choice. And you're the one who has to live with the consequences. You're allowed to be furious."
Caleb stares at me. His eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, but there's something new in them. Something like relief.
"Peyton told me I needed to let him go," he says. "She said I was stuck in my grief and it was unattractive."
Of course she did. Perfect Peyton, who has probably never felt an emotion that couldn't be solved with a new outfit and an Instagram post.
"Peyton sounds like she's never lost anything that mattered," I say.
"She lost me." His eyes meet mine. "We broke up three weeks ago. She said I was too distant. Too cold. She said I didn't know how to love her because I was still in love with a ghost."
"Were you?"
"I don't know." He rubs his face with both hands. "I don't know what I feel about anything anymore. Except football. Football makes sense. You throw the ball, you catch the ball, you win or you lose. Everything else is just... noise."
I think about my sketchbook. About the way a blank page makes sense. You put lines on it, you shade the shadows, you create something that wasn't there before. When I draw, the noise stops.
"Can I show you something?" I ask.
He looks wary but curious. "What?"
"Wait here."
I slip back out into the cold night. The grass is still wet, soaking through my socks again as I cross to the pool house. My sketchbook is on the fold-out couch where I left it. I grab it and hurry back, the cold air biting at my cheeks.
Caleb hasn't moved. The photograph of Drew is still on the counter, but his hands are in his lap now, still and waiting.
I open the sketchbook to the page I drew earlier tonight. The boy with the broad shoulders and the sad eyes, holding a jar of peanut butter.
I slide it across the island.
Caleb stares at it.
"Is that... me?"
"It's you the way I saw you tonight," I say. "Not the quarterback. Not the bully's best friend. Just a boy eating peanut butter in his kitchen, telling the truth for the first time in two years."
His fingers hover over the page, not quite touching, like he's afraid he'll smudge the lines.
"You made me look..." He searches for the word. "Human."
"That's because you are."
Something shifts in his face. The armor cracks a little more. His eyes, still red and swollen, meet mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"Why are you being nice to me?" he asks. "I was awful to you. I laughed when Travis called you Gravy. I let people treat you like you were invisible. I don't deserve—"
"Maybe not." I cut him off gently. "But I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for me. Because the person I want to be doesn't walk away from someone who's crying in a kitchen at three in the morning."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly I almost miss it:
"Thank you."
The words are small. But they cost him something. I can see it in the way his shoulders drop, like he's been holding them up for years and finally allowed himself to rest.
"Get some sleep," I say, standing. "The twins wake up in three hours, and according to you, Sophie is a tiny lawyer who will demand pancakes."
A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. "With chocolate chips. Don't forget the chocolate chips."
"I'll add it to my list of demands."
I'm at the door when he speaks again.
"Maya."
I turn.
He's holding the sketchbook page, the drawing of himself. "Can I... keep this?"
The question catches me off guard. No one has ever asked to keep my art before. My mom hangs my drawings on the refrigerator, but that's different. That's obligation dressed up as support.
"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, you can keep it."
I step outside. The sky is starting to lighten at the edges, the deep black fading to a bruised purple. Dawn is coming.
Behind me, through the glass door, I see Caleb fold the drawing carefully and tuck it into his pocket, right over his heart.
\---
I sleep for two hours.
When I wake, the sun is fully up and my phone is buzzing with a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: Meet me in the kitchen before school. There's something you need to see.
I frown, rubbing sleep from my eyes. It's 6:47 AM. Sophie and Sam will be awake any minute, demanding pancakes and roaring like tiny dinosaurs.
I pull on jeans and a hoodie, run a brush through my tangled curls, and head to the main house. The kitchen is already bright with morning light, and Caleb is there, fully dressed in dark jeans and a fitted navy sweater, his hair still damp from a shower. He looks completely different from the broken boy I saw hours ago. The armor is back on, polished to a high shine.
But I know what's underneath now. I can't unknow it.
"What's going on?" I ask.
He hands me his phone without a word.
On the screen is a group chat. The name at the top reads: Varsity Football - NO GIRLS ALLOWED.
The most recent messages make my blood run cold.
Travis: Yo did you guys know Gravy is living in Sterling's pool house?
Marcus: No way. For real?
Travis: My mom saw her mom's car in the driveway. She's the new maid's kid or something. Free babysitting lol.
Evan: That's wild. Sterling, you gotta get rid of her. She's gonna kill your vibe.
Travis: Nah we should have some fun with it. Remember what we did to that freshman last year with the locker room?
Marcus: LMAO yeah. But she's a girl. Gotta be more creative.
Travis: I got ideas. Trust me. By the time we're done, Gravy won't show her face at Oakhaven again.
My hands are shaking. I look up at Caleb.
His face is stone. But his eyes—his eyes are burning.
"They're planning something," he says. "For today. I don't know what. But I'm going to find out."
"And then what?"
He takes his phone back, his fingers brushing mine deliberately this time. The touch is warm, steady, intentional.
"Then I'm going to stop them."
The twins burst into the kitchen, Sophie already negotiating her pancake toppings and Sam roaring like a T-Rex. But I barely hear them.
All I can see is the group chat. All I can hear is Gravy won't show her face at Oakhaven again.
And all I can feel is the terrifying, electric hope that maybe—just maybe—Caleb Sterling actually means what he says.