Chapter 15 Almost leaving
POV: Noah Carter
I tell myself it’s over.
I repeat it like a rule, like something written down somewhere official enough that it can’t be argued with. Over means done. Over means closed. Over means I don’t have to think about the way Elias looked at me when he said my name like it wasn’t an accusation.
But nothing actually ends just because you say it does.
The first thing I change is my route across campus.
I stop cutting through the east quad. I stop using the humanities building as a shortcut. I stop walking anywhere without headphones in, volume up, eyes forward. It’s ridiculous—Ridgeway isn’t that small—but suddenly every open space feels dangerous, like he could be standing in it without even trying.
I tell myself this is discipline.
Control.
The kind of thing I’m good at.
Practice helps at first. The field makes sense. There are rules, lines, expectations. Coach shouts, my body responds. Muscle memory doesn’t ask questions. My teammates don’t look at me like they know anything about me beyond my stats.
But even there, Elias follows me.
Not physically. That would be easier.
It’s worse than that—he’s in the quiet moments. When I lace my cleats. When I shower afterward and let the hot water hit my face a second too long. When I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying everything I should have said differently.
You knew who I was.
I squeeze my eyes shut like that might erase the sentence.
I delete his number on the second night.
It feels dramatic, even as I do it. My thumb hovers before I confirm, like I’m waiting for someone to stop me. No one does. The screen goes blank. The contact disappears.
My chest tightens immediately.
I tell myself that’s normal. Habit breaking. Withdrawal from routine. It doesn’t mean anything.
Except I don’t delete Nadia’s number when we fight. I don’t delete anyone else’s when things get complicated.
I block Elias too, just to make sure.
Then I unblock him an hour later, because blocking feels like an admission that I’m not as in control as I want to be.
I sit on my bed, phone in my hand, staring at the empty message thread. The last thing there is a time stamp from days ago. No words. No evidence. Just absence.
This is what I wanted, I think.
So why does it feel like I’ve lost something instead?
On the third day, Nadia asks me what’s wrong.
She doesn’t accuse. She never does. That’s part of why this hurts so much—she makes space for me even when I don’t deserve it.
We’re sitting in her apartment, legs tangled together on the couch. She’s wearing one of my sweatshirts, hair damp from a shower. Domestic. Familiar. Safe.
“You’ve been somewhere else,” she says gently. “Did something happen?”
I open my mouth and almost tell her everything.
Not because I want to confess. Because for a split second, I want relief.
But the image of Elias—skirts, chin high, unashamed—flashes through my mind, and I shut down instead.
“Practice is intense,” I say. “Coach is riding us harder this season.”
She studies my face. She always has. “That’s not it.”
I don’t answer.
Her hand tightens around her mug. “You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready,” she says. “But don’t shut me out.”
Guilt spreads slow and heavy in my chest.
“I’m not,” I lie. “I promise.”
She nods, but something flickers in her eyes. Doubt. Hurt. She doesn’t push, and somehow that’s worse.
That night, I type the message to Elias three times before I send it.
Each version sounds wrong.
Too cold. Too apologetic. Too revealing.
In the end, I keep it short.
We can’t talk anymore. Please respect that.
I stare at the screen after I hit send, waiting for something to happen. My phone stays silent.
I tell myself that’s good.
I tell myself that means he understands.
But hours pass. Then a full night. Then a morning.
Nothing.
The silence eats at me.
I start imagining him reading it—face unreadable, lips pressed together, that look he gets when someone underestimates him. I imagine Ivy beside him, angry on his behalf. I imagine Elias laughing it off, already over me.
That thought shouldn’t hurt.
It does.
By the fourth day, I’m exhausted.
Not physically. I can still run drills until my legs burn. I can still lift until my arms shake. But mentally, I’m frayed. Every decision feels like it requires more effort than it should.
I catch myself scanning rooms without meaning to. Cafeteria. Library. Commons.
I don’t want to see him.
I want to see him so badly it scares me.
When I finally do, it’s accidental.
I’m crossing the commons with two teammates, half-listening to them argue about a party, when I hear laughter. Not loud. Just real.
I look up before I can stop myself.
Elias is sitting on the grass with Ivy. He’s leaning back on his hands, skirt bright against the green, head tipped back as he laughs. There’s nothing performative about it. No armor. Just ease.
He looks… happy.
And for a second, I can’t breathe.
He doesn’t look my way.
That’s the worst part.
I stand there, frozen, while my teammates keep walking, and I realize something awful and undeniable.
Cutting him off didn’t make me free.
It made him disappear from my control.
And I don’t know how to handle that.
I walk away before he can see me. Coward. The word sticks, but I don’t argue with it.
That night, I consider leaving.
Not campus. Not for real.
Just the idea of it.
I imagine transferring. Starting over somewhere no one knows me. Somewhere Elias is just a memory instead of a presence I have to dodge.
The fantasy lasts all of ten seconds before reality crashes in.
My scholarship. My team. My parents’ expectations. Nadia.
I’m trapped in a life that only works if I stay exactly who I’ve always been.
And Elias… Elias is a crack in that structure.
I tell myself that’s why this has to end.
Not because I don’t want him.
Because I do.
Too much.
The problem is that wanting him doesn’t feel like temptation.
It feels like recognition.
And that scares me more than anything else.
I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the way he looked at me when he said, You don’t get to touch me and then act like I’m the problem.
I press my palms into my eyes.
I almost leave.
I almost walk away for real.
But almost isn’t enough.
Because in the end, I’m still here.
Still thinking about him.
Still not brave enough to choose anything different.
And that, I realize, is the cruelest truth of all.
I didn’t cut him off because I’m strong.
I cut him off because I’m afraid.
And fear, I’m learning too late, doesn’t end things.
It just makes them rot in silence.
A/N
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