Jamie’s gone, and it feels so good. I’ve won—he’s out of the bookstore, out of Alex’s life, and I’m the one standing tall. I heard he’s crashing with his brother now, kicked out like trash. The college expelled him too—permanent, public, all over town by lunchtime. I saw the notice online, his name in big letters, and I smiled so wide my face hurt. He’s done—suspended turned into expelled, cops sniffing around, nobody believing his whiny “I didn’t do it” anymore. I did that. Me and Morgan, sure, but mostly me. I made it happen, and it’s perfect.
I walk by the bookstore that afternoon, casual, like I’m just passing through. The blinds are down, but I peek through a gap. Alex is inside, alone, moving slow behind the counter. No Jamie stacking books, no annoying shadow hanging around. Just Alex, quiet, mine to reach now. I lean against a lamppost across the street, watching him. He’s got that tired look—hair messy, shoulders bent—like the world’s pressing down on him. Good. He needs me more than ever, and I’m here, waiting for him to see it.
I’ve been watching him a lot lately. Can’t help it. Every day, I find a reason to swing by—grab a coffee nearby, walk the block, linger outside. Sometimes he’s out front, locking up, and I catch his eye, give him a little wave. He nods back, polite, but distant. That’s okay—he’s hurting, confused, but he’ll come around. Jamie’s gone, and I’m the one who’s steady, who’s there. I’ve got his notebook still, tucked in my drawer at home, those creepy sketches of Alex proving I was right to push him out. I haven’t shown it yet—don’t need to. Alex is doubting him already, and that’s enough for now.
It’s not all smooth, though. I feel it creeping in, this itch I can’t scratch. I’m winning, but it’s not enough—he’s not mine yet. I sit in my dorm that night, lights off, staring out the window. My phone’s in my hand, thumb hovering over his number. I want to text him, check in, keep him close. I’ve been good—popping by the store, saying soft things like “I’m worried about you” or “Jamie’s mess must be hard.” He listens, nods, but doesn’t talk much. It’s driving me crazy. He should be leaning on me, needing me, not just staring off like I’m not there.
I get up, pace the room, my socks quiet on the floor. My head’s buzzing—too many thoughts, too fast. Jamie’s out, but Alex isn’t mine yet, and it’s messing with me. I stop by my desk, yank the drawer open, and pull out the notebook. I flip through it, quick, the pages crinkling. Alex’s face stares back—sketches, over and over, Jamie’s dumb handwriting spilling out. “Why you?” one says. “Always you,” another. It’s sick—he’s sick—and I fixed it. I threw him out of Alex’s life, but it’s not done. Alex isn’t smiling at me, isn’t calling me. I toss the notebook back, slam the drawer shut, my hands shaking a little.
I grab my jacket and head out. It’s late, past ten, but I don’t care. I need to see him. The streets are empty, just me and the cold, my breath puffing white. I get to the bookstore, stick to the shadows across the way. The lights are off, but I see a glow upstairs—his room. He’s there, alone, probably awake. I watch, my heart pounding, imagining him sitting up, thinking about me. He’s got to be lonely now—Jamie’s gone, the store’s a mess, Morgan’s piling on. I heard about the inspections, the legal stuff—Morgan’s doing, keeping Alex off balance. It’s perfect—he’s breaking, and I’ll be the one to catch him.
I stand there too long, my feet numb, just staring. A car rolls by, slow, and I duck back, heart jumping. What if he sees me? What if he thinks I’m weird? I shake it off—he wouldn’t. I’m helping him, being there. I’m not the creep—Jamie was, with his drawings and lies. I’m better. I head back to my dorm, the cold biting, but I feel alive, buzzing. Alex is mine to save now—I just need him to see it.
Back in my room, I can’t sit still. It’s late—past midnight—and my head won’t quiet down. I grab my phone again, open a text to Alex. My fingers move fast, typing, deleting, typing again. I want to say something big, pull him in, but it’s got to be right. I settle on short, simple: “You don’t have to be alone, you know.” I stare at it, my thumb hovering over “send.” It’s perfect—soft, sweet, just enough. He’ll read it, feel it, know I’m here. I grin, picturing his face, tired but softening, texting me back.
But then I stop. What if he doesn’t? What if he ignores it, like he’s been ignoring me? My stomach twists, and I delete it, fast, the screen blank again. No—I’ll wait. He’s not ready yet, but he will be. I’ll make sure of it.